


The Elephant in the Room

by fayedartmouth



Category: CHAOS (TV 2011)
Genre: Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Rick is the new guy, the ODS is crazy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-12
Updated: 2013-10-03
Packaged: 2017-12-26 09:15:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 53,504
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/964222
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fayedartmouth/pseuds/fayedartmouth
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Rick’s second mission for the CIA is even more complicated than his first.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: I do not own Chaos.
> 
> A/N: Written for postfallen. Beta’ed by sockie1000. Posted in seven parts to maintain my sanity. Will post Thursdays and Mondays, as I remember. Set directly after 1.01.

Cambodia. Heroin. Another mission for the CIA.

All things considered, Rick had been excited about the prospects. Intrigue and deception; danger and spywork. This is what Rick had signed up for. Hero’s work.

And it’s not the mosquitos, which Michael swats at with annoyance. It’s not the heat that Billy bemoans will be the death of them all. It’s not even the leeches, which Casey is right, did appear. 

Hell, it’s not even the men with guns surrounding them. Or the _elephants._

It’s Michael, voice low but clear. “Do you think you can take them?”

For a moment, Rick thinks he must have misheard. Because there are at least a dozen men, all carry automatic weapons. As if that isn’t enough, Rick’s pretty sure death by elephant is just as unpleasant as being a bullet-riddled corpse.

“Yeah,” Casey replies, not missing a beat. “But I need someone to draw their fire.”

Now Rick thinks they must be kidding. This has to be another hazing ritual. Sadistic and elaborate and Rick is not going to humor them by playing along because there’s an _elephant_ staring him down.

“Not it,” Billy says.

“Not it,” Michael says.

Then, Rick understands.

He hasn’t misheard. This isn’t a joke. He turns toward his teammates, mouth open and eyes wide. This is their plan.

With a dozen armed men and an angry-looking elephant, miles from civilization in hostile territory in remote Cambodia, _this_ is their plan.  
 _  
Do you think you can take them?_

_Yeah, but I need someone to draw their fire._

_Not it._

_Not it.  
_  
Rick’s stomach drops out and for a second, he worries he might cry. Because he’s surrounded by a dozen armed men and an angry looking elephant, miles from civilization in hostile territory in remote Cambodia and _he’s it.  
_  
-o-

Rick freezes.

It’s not something he’s proud of -- he’s trained too hard to stand stupidly in the face of danger -- but it is what it is. In his defense, this is only his second mission with the CIA and, really, it’s not like the team has given him any actual instruction on what he’s supposed to do at times like this. He’s fairly certain they don’t want him to die, but his feelings on that seem to change on a day by day basis.

Sometimes his teammates seem like heroes.

Other times, they’re sadistic bastards who should be incarcerated for the betterment of the world.

Right now, Rick’s leaning toward the latter.

Still, he’s too aware that he’s standing like an idiot when Michael bolts to one side and Billy slips to another. Casey charges past him, and Rick ducks just as the gunfire erupts.

He presses himself down into the fauna, ears reverberating from the sound of machine gun fire. The leaves kick up not far from him, and he mutters a curse, rolling back and tucking in on himself. The elephant trumpets in obvious distress and Rick squeezes his eyes shut, waiting to be trampled or shot.

Honestly, he’s not sure which one he prefers at this point.

Then, he remembers.

He’s CIA.

He’s part of the ODS.

He has a place on this team, and if he’s going to die, he’s not going to die curled up under the bushes. Breathing once and then twice, he steels his resolve and leaps to his feet, screaming in inarticulate determination as he surges forward.

After two yards, he stops.

The armed men are on the ground, unconscious, while Casey collects their guns. Michael is going through the belongings of one of them, and Billy is sitting next to the elephant, which thumps him lovingly on the head with its trunk.

Rick stares.

Michael looks at him blandly. “That would have been impressive if the fight wasn’t over.”

“I don’t usually favor primal screams as part of a valid fighting style,” Casey tells him, hefting a gun up. “But I have to admit, you sort of pulled it off.”

Billy shifts. “I, for one, was quite impressed,” he says. “With nary a concern for your own well being, you charged willingly into a fray, possibly at the expense of your life.”

Michael chuckled, pocketing a piece of paper. “Or at least at the expense of your dignity.”

Rick’s cheeks reddened. “You guys could have told me the plan.”

“We did,” Casey says. “I said I needed a distraction.”

“That’s not a plan,” Rick argues.

“Ah,” Billy says, getting to his feet shakily. He’s favoring one side, hand pressed against his stomach as he winces. “I’m afraid we sometimes forget that you don’t yet have enough experience to know exactly what we’re thinking. We’ve had six years to refine our craft together. We operate as a seamless team. It’s almost a psychic connection.”

“Plus it’s fun to watch you flail stupidly,” Casey says.

Rick glowers.

Michael seems to be holding back a smile as he walks back toward Rick. “You okay?”

“I’m fine,” Rick says, lowering his head a little and trying not to blush.

“And the rest of you?” Michael asks, turning around to look at Billy and Casey.

Casey is collecting one last gun and he gives Michael a withering look. “I’m not going to validate such a question with a response.”

Billy is making his way slowly back, still listing slightly. “Nothing serious,” he says breezily, but Rick can tell he’s in pain by the way his words are slightly clipped and his face is pinched.

Clearly, Michael notices it, too. “Gunshot?” he asks, nodding toward Billy’s side.

Billy shakes his head. “Caught a bit of a blade from hand to hand,” he says. “Like I said, nothing serious--”

But Michael’s already taking Billy by the arm, pulling him toward an open patch of ground. He half pushes Billy down, and the Scot yelps but seems to know better than to protest while Michael moves his hands away and looks at the wound.

Rick follows close behind, and he catches sight of the blood. It’s dark and it already coats Billy’s hand, staining down the side of his shirt. He hadn’t seen it before, but the stain is bigger than he’d thought, spread down Billy’s back a bit.

Michael is frowning, ripping the ruined shirt away and exposing the rip in the flesh. At first sight, Rick’s stomach churns a bit, and Michael winces as he probes it. 

After a moment, Michael glances back. “Casey?”

Casey is already moving toward them, easing into position as Michael shifts back. Casey reaches out, wrinkling his nose as he touches the wound.

Billy inhales sharply, and his face is taut, but he says nothing. 

Casey feels for a second before pulling his hand away. “Nothing life threatening,” he confirms, wiping his hands on his pants.

“See,” Billy says, a little breathless. “Like I said, nothing serious.”

Glaring, Casey doesn’t hesitate to add. “Assuming we keep it clean and watch the bleeding,” he says. “It looks like it’s going to clot okay on its own, but in these conditions...”

Michael nods, a little grim. “Infection,” he says.

Billy swallows. He’s trembling just a little, but when he speaks, his voice is strong. “We have antiseptic,” he says. “Bandage it up.”

“And what? Keep going?” Michael asks. He shakes his head. “Even if you had the stamina, it’s too risky.”

“Michael,” Billy says, lowering his voice this time. “The mission--”

Michael straightens, and nods, almost to himself with renewed resolve. “The mission,” he interjects with no room for argument. “Just changed.”

-o-

Rick’s never sure quite how they do it, but the ODS always seems to be one step ahead. Even when things are going horribly and terribly wrong, they are entirely unfazed. 

It’s amazing, really.

It’s frustrating.

Mostly, though, it’s just reality.

“Okay,” Michael says. “So I think it’s pretty safe to say that this wasn’t the welcoming party.”

Rick glances around uneasily. They’ve secured the area and made a short hike to a secluded grove in the jungle. The assailants are tied up and disarmed, but there’s no telling when reinforcements might arrive. The elephant has wandered off when Billy finally prodded it. Even still, Rick feels conspicuous, which leaves him more than a little uneasy.

“Or if it was, they need to work on their social skills,” Billy quips. His timing is impeccable, as always, but the slight wheeze in his delivery is telling.

“I don’t know, I often find that saying _hello_ by force is the best approach,” Casey says.

“How is that the best approach?” Rick asks.

Casey smirks. “Because they go away faster.”

“Yeah, but the network we’re looking at infiltrating doesn’t want us to go away,” Michael reminds them. “They think we’re going to invest in their farms.”

“With money they need to expand their heroin operation, no doubt,” Billy says. He moves just an inch, wincing. Casey has cleaned and bandaged the wound, but Billy’s still protecting it gingerly. “Killing us would hardly seem to be the best business tactic.”

“I think it’s safe to say our friends were from another group entirely,” Michael concludes.

“Competition?” Casey asks.

Michael pulls out one of the papers he confiscated. “Self-appointed oversight committee more like it,” he says, holding it out. 

Rick leans closer, scanning the document. The language is foreign, but he can pick up enough words. A frown creases his forehead. “They’re a militia.”

“Also known as a terrorist cell,” Michael clarifies.

“Ah, wonderful,” Billy murmurs sarcastically. He breathes heavily as he continues. “No wonder Higgins fast tracked us on this. If we’d had any idea--”

“We probably wouldn’t have come,” Michael agrees. 

“Or at least come prepared,” Casey gripes. “We’re a tea company. We’re armed with tea leaves; that’s no match for a terrorist cell.”

“But wouldn’t the cell have an arrangement with the heroin dealers?” Rick asks. He pauses, letting his thoughts coalesce. “They’re not in active competition. In fact, I’ll bet they’ve got a lot of crossover interests.”

“What are you getting at, Martinez?” Michael asks.

“Just that these cells like to keep a low profile unless they’re trying to make a point,” he continues, and it’s coming together faster for him now, certainty filling in the logical gaps. “A friend of a friend should be a friend.”

“In theory,” Billy says, sounding a bit grim. His blood stained fingers clench at the bandage around his side. “In application, I’m not so sure.”

“But maybe we just need to tell them,” Rick says, because sometimes things really are that simple. “If they knew who we were--”

“Then they might at least know where to leave our bodies,” Casey concludes. He looks at Michael. “This is risky.”

“This is the job,” Michael reminds him.

“We’re already down a man,” Casey points out.

“I’m fine,” Billy insists.

“You’re not fine,” Casey says back.

“The mission is more important,” Billy tells him in a low voice.

Casey turns a furious gaze from Billy to Michael. “Dragging an injured man into a mission is stupid,” he says, eyes darting angrily toward Billy before locking on Michael. “For _everyone._ ”

There’s a taut silence after that, and Rick can’t deny that they all have points. Honestly, he doesn’t know what the best option is. His training had been about abstract missions with abstract teammates -- this was real, down to the blood, the stress, and the elephants. CIA missions are hard to hold together, and cover stories don’t appear out of thin air. The reason Higgins’ approved a mission of this magnitude with so little lead team isn’t just for revenge; it’s because this is probably their only chance.

But Billy’s hurt. It doesn’t seem life threatening, but Rick remembers his first aid courses at the Farm. Treating a wound is imperative. Open stab wounds can be easily infected. Billy needs rest and time.

Two fundamentally opposed needs. And Rick has no idea which one to consider first.

Fortunately, that’s not his call.

Michael nods. “Well, we can delay our meeting a few hours,” he says, looking fully resolved now. “Our asset doesn’t live that far from here, and he owes us more than a few favors.”

Casey’s eyebrows go up. “You sure you want to trust him?”

Michael glances at Billy. “It’s our best option,” he says. “We’ll stop and regroup. That’ll give us time to get Billy rested and to see what he knows about the situation on the ground.”

Rick has to admit, that sounds sensible. Which is probably why it worries him.

For once, he doesn’t seem to be alone in his doubts. Casey shakes his head. “I don’t like trusting third parties during the mission,” he says.

“This entire mission is based on his intel,” Michael points out.

“Besides,” Billy adds, grinning. “This means we’ll be out of the jungle! No more leeches.”

Casey glares. “Only you, Collins, could make leeches sound appealing.”

Michael chuckles. “We ready to go then?”

Getting to his feet, Rick nods. It’s funny, how he can trust these men and yet not trust them at all. Sometimes he thinks he knows better, but the fact is, they’re so damn convincing when it counts. “I’m good.”

Casey’s not far behind. “I’m not sure _ready_ is the right word,” he says, reaching down to help pull Billy to his feet. 

Face paling, Billy grunts. He wavers for a moment, but smiles tightly. “Lead the way.”

-o-

Rick is physically fit. In fact, he’d readily excelled at the physical training courses at the Farm. He has an acute focus for such tasks, and whether it was doing 100 pushups or running for 5 miles, he could do it, no questions asked. 

The problem is that fieldwork isn’t so much like training. Physical demands are doing pushups or running on a track. It’s laborious hikes through uncertain terrain. Even so, Rick thinks he could handle it with no problems were it not for the distractions of the mission.

It’s one thing to hike through the rainforests in Cambodia. It’s another to hike through the rainforest in Cambodia with a team he’s not sure he trusts and a militant group possibly looking to kill them. Not to mention the drug dealers they’re supposed to meet and Billy’s limping gait. Rick can accomplish anything when he’s focused, but right now there’s so much going on that he feels winded just by thinking about it.

They travel in relative silence, which Rick might have expected to be a good thing given the ODS’ penchant for the impossible, the ridiculous, and the annoying. Besides, he’s still a little uncertain about their safety on this trek. Michael has promised that he knows where they’re going and Casey does seem to be an able defensive measure, but Rick keeps making his way around a tree trunk and staring down the barrel of a gun.

Or the trunk of an elephant.

Rick’s not sure what would be worse.

What he _knows_ is worse, however, is the tension that fills the quiet between them. He’s only been on one mission with the ODS, and he’d found their nonstop talk difficult to deal with. He’s never fully appreciated, however, that the banter was a good way to keep from worrying about the possibilities of impending disaster, of which, there are actually many.

Michael seems too focused on cutting their path, and Casey’s too busy glaring at the plantlife like it might attack them. Billy’s the one who’s prone to mindless chitchat, but the Scotsman is silent, too. He walks in front of Rick, placing each step gingerly while he uses one hand to guard his side. When Billy turns to check behind him, his face is place and pinched -- a sure sign of the older operative’s discomfort.

Rick loses track of time, and when Michael finally pulls them up for a rest, Rick’s surprised to realize how much he needs it. His lungs are burning and his legs feel rubbery. When he breaks out his canteen, he downs nearly half of it before he realizes what he’s doing.

Putting it down, he screws the cap back into place, looking around sheepishly as Michael watches him curiously. “You’ll want to pace yourself,” Michael advises. “It’s better to drink in small sips as we go instead of saving it all for now.”

Rick nods vaguely, watching as Billy lowers himself to the ground against one of the nearby trees while Casey sets about checking the perimeter. “I didn’t realize how far we’d gone,” Rick admits.

The smile Michael offers him is small. “You’re distracted.”

He’s not wrong, but Rick doesn’t want to admit that. Mostly because he doesn’t like how easily the ODS seems to know everything he’s thinking -- even before he’s realized he’s thinking it. A little indignant, Rick puts his canteen away. “There’s a lot going on.”

“Not really,” Casey says, coming back toward the center of their makeshift resting point and slinging his pack on the ground. “We’re walking through the jungle. This is nothing more than getting from point A to point B.”

“We could be hunted by terrorists,” Rick reminds them, trying his best not to sound petulant.

“If we were being hunted, they probably would have made their move already,” Michael says.

“There could be elephants,” Rick says, feeling more defensive. Then he feels completely stupid. “Elephant attacks are dangerous.”

Michael wrinkles his nose. Casey rolls his eyes.

It’s Billy who smiles. “Never mind them,” he says by way of reassurance. “Michael and Casey are not known for their nuance.”

“I also don’t tend to worry about elephant attacks,” Michael says wryly.

Casey looks thoughtful. “I think I could take one.”

Rick stares at him.

Billy chuckles. “Don’t worry, though,” he says to Rick. “A finer group of men you will not meet.”

Rick is dubious, and he doesn’t bother trying to hide it since he’s pretty sure his team already knows he thinks they’re full of crap most of the time.

Accordingly, Michael smirks. “We’ll rest for about 10 minutes,” he says. “I want to check the maps, but I think we’re about four hours from Jonah’s house.”

“Four hours give our...current condition?” Casey asks with a glance toward Billy.

Billy’s humor fades. “Don’t worry about me,” he says. “It’s a scratch; I can keep up.”

It’s Casey’s turn to look dubious, but Michael doesn’t seem interested in appeasing Casey’s doubts or Billy’s declarations. “Four hours,” Michael says again, looking purposefully from Casey to Billy before his eyes settled on Rick. “So everyone be ready.”

The order is general, but Rick can’t help but feel like it’s directed at him somehow. Why, he’s not sure. But this is the ODS. Nothing they do makes much sense.

But he’s the one who decided to stay with them. He’s the one who dropped everything and came on this mission. He’s made a choice.

Only time will tell if he regrets it or not.

-o-

True to his word, Michael rallies them after ten minutes. This time, he lets Casey take point, instructing Rick to follow close behind while he and Billy take up the rear. Rick feels conspicuously sandwiched -- it’s not hard to see Michael’s train of thought on this one. He trusts Casey and himself and is trying to protect Billy. 

Rick doesn’t need to be protected, but he’s clearly not an equal.

He wants to say something -- and he very nearly does -- but as he opens his mouth to protest, he watches Michael help Billy to his feet. The Scot takes the help soundlessly, and Michael hovers close to him for a moment before Billy steadies himself and sets off. There’s no words exchanged between them, but it’s a quiet moment of support that is almost surprisingly gentle.

Right when Rick thinks the ODS is full of heartless bastards, they do something that makes them human.

Closing his mouth, Rick pulls his pack tighter and sets off down the trail after Casey.

-o-

The back half of the trek is exhausting. Casey doesn’t miss a beat, but Rick starts to feel it wearing him down. He’s soaked with sweat -- naturally, seeing as it is the rainforest -- and he’s had to work to fend off a muscle cramp in his leg from the up and down trail they seem to be following. 

After a few hours, Rick’s too tired to think completely rationally, which at least means he’s not scared any more. He is, however, somewhat irrationally angry. 

“Where does this asset live again?” he asks, the words sharp and clip as they make their way down an incline.

Behind him, Michael grunts. “His name is Jonah,” he says, and Rick takes some pleasure in hearing a slight huff in his breathing as well. “And he lives pretty far out.”

Rick scoffs. “Why?”

“You’re going to have be more specific,” Michael says.

“Why,” Rick repeats, using a tree trunk to steady himself, “would anyone live this far from civilization? Especially _here?_ ”

“Jonah’s got his own way of doing things,” Michael explains.

From up ahead, Casey turns back. “Meaning: Jonah’s a paranoid conspiracy theorist who would rather live amongst terrorists and drug dealers than under governmental oversight.”

“But he’s got a good heart,” Michael clarifies quickly. “He wants to do the right thing and he wants the world to be a better place. He’s just a little choosy about who he trusts to do that.”

“He’s insane,” Casey says.

“He’s reliable,” Michael says. “His intel has never let us down.”

“Really,” Billy says, cutting in. “He’s our only option at this point, so this conversation is all rather...moot.”

He sounds terrible, and Rick turns around and sees Billy trailing behind him, almost side by side with Michael. He’s still moving under his own steam, but he’s visibly hunched over and his face is so drawn that it makes him look gaunt.

Suddenly, Rick’s discomfort seems silly. He’s feeling tired and winded, but Billy’s done the same hike with a knife wound.

Cheeks burning, Rick faces front again. “Well, not much farther, right?” he asks with as much optimism as he can muster.

It sounds flat to him, but Michael doesn’t miss a beat. “Not much farther at all,” he says. “We’ll be there in no time.”

Which, as far as Rick is concerned, wouldn’t be soon enough.

-o-

By the time they get to the house, Rick feels absolutely disgusting. His clothes are stuck to his body and he’s given up trying to stop the swath of bugs. He wants to shower, but he’s not sure it would even make any difference at this point -- he may not feel truly clean for months.

The bone-sapping heat is why Rick doesn’t blame himself for not really seeing the house before Michael pulls them to a stop and walks carefully through the jungle. Rick stops, wondering if Michael has finally gone insane, but when the team leader pushes away a few branches, Rick sees the fence.

Casey has doubled back and stands next to Rick, nodding. “That’s actually somewhat impressive,” he observes. “Jonah’s made some upgrades.”

“He’s got a way with things,” Michael says, cutting away a vine to expose a control panel.

Rick scoffs a bit, eyeing the trees and making out the well-hidden fence line. “How did he even get all this done?”

“Well, Jonah’s an eccentric conspiracy theorist,” Michael says, tapping a few buttons on the pad. “He’s pretty big into DIY projects.”

“Plus we’re not as remote as you think we are,” Casey says. He nods off over the fence. “Go five miles in the other direction and you’re at one of the only access roads to this area. It’s not exactly high grade but it is well traveled.”

Rick frowns. “So if there’s a road--”

“Then why are we in the jungle?” Michael asks, barely holding back a smile as he works a few more buttons.

“Because we prefer _not_ to be seen,” Billy says dryly, and Rick glances to where the other man is leaning heavily against a tree. It occurs to Rick that it’s the first time he’s spoken.

“You work for covert affairs,” Michael reminds him as the gate swings open. “We’ve already made more of an entrance than we’d like.”

Billy grimaces, pushing off the tree and moving after him. “Me more than the rest of you,” he says with a small groan. “When I say spywork is in my blood, I generally prefer _not_ to prove it.”

Michael ushers in behind Billy, his pace nearly matching the Scotsman as they cross through to the other side. “Not buying it,” he quips. “You like your theatrics.”

Casey snorts, waiting for Rick to go in ahead of him. “You probably went looking for the only idiot back there who brought a knife to a gunfight,” he says. “And then only _you_ could actually get tagged with it.”

“In my defense, I did disarm two other men in the process,” Billy says. He lifts a finger. “And I charmed the elephant.”

Michael rolls his eyes. “The elephant wasn’t carrying a knife.”

“You guys really haven’t read up on elephant attacks, have you?” Rick asks.

“Thank you, Martinez,” Billy says. “At least someone on this team values my contributions.”

“Martinez didn’t even join the fight until it was over,” Casey says. “I’m not sure his opinion counts.”

“That’s because you guys didn’t tell me what you were doing!” Rick protests.

“Men with guns were standing there,” Casey replies. “It was sort of self-explanatory.”

“No!” Rick says sharply. “No, it’s really not.”

“We can talk about who’s the biggest idiot later,” Michael cuts them off coolly. “Right now, we may want to lower our voices. You know how Jonah is about company.”

Rick stops at that, and regains his bearings. Inside the fence, the yard is still thick with plant life, but there seem to be fewer trees. About half a mile away from the fence, there’s a simple structure. It seems to be made of metal, but the buffed surface seems muted to blend in with the surroundings. There are surprisingly few windows, but the antennas and wires on the roof are a sure sign of modern activity.

It’s not inviting to look at, and that’s not even considering the setting in the middle of the Cambodian rainforest.

“How is Jonah about company?” he asks, a pang of uncertainty settling over him.

Billy limps next to him, offering a weary smile. “You’ll see.”

-o-

At the door, Michael knocks three times. Then he pauses and knocks three more times.

Rick is perplexed, but then three knocks return. Michael knocks one last time and the door opens.

The man who answers is a few inches taller than Rick but far more gangly. He’s wearing jeans and a t-shirt that look two sizes too big, and he’s got glasses and scraggly brown hair. His expression is puckered, eyes narrowed in a glare, directed straight at Michael.

“I thought you said for emergencies only,” the man said, not hiding his suspicion.

Michael smiled. “Good to see you, too, Jonah.”

Jonah didn’t budge. “Emergencies, Michael.” He crosses his arms indignantly over his chest. “Assuming that is your name.”

“We have this conversation every time we meet,” Michael says with patience. 

“And every time we meet, you’re clearly lying.”

“So you think this time will be any different?” Michael asks.

Jonah looks perturbed, and Rick starts to wonder if this is really that good of an idea. “ _Emergencies,_ Michael,” Jonah says. “I don’t really like visitors.”

“And I don’t really like visiting,” Michael replies without missing a beat. Then he nods toward Billy, who is bracing himself just slightly against the railing on Jonah’s industrialized front porch. “But this is an emergency.”

Jonah looks at Billy and sees the blood. His eyes widen. “Then why did you come here!” he exclaims. “I don’t like emergencies!”

Casey makes a sound of frustration in the back of his throat, and Rick glances at him, noting that the so-called human weapon seems to be barely containing his rage.

“You know what you really don’t like?” Michael asks. “You don’t like when there’s a full CIA extraction team landing in your backyard, during which time they will inevitably disclose your location and put tabs on you, tracking your every movement from here on out. You don’t let us in, you’ll be on the grid. Forever, Jonah.”

Jonah fidgets, looking nervously from Michael to the rest of them.

“Four operatives or the entire United States government,” Michael says. He shrugs. “It’s up to you.”

Jonah’s face darkens. “I hate you,” he mutters.

Michael grins. “I’ll take that as an invitation to come inside.”

Jonah doesn’t reply but turns around, muttering as he disappears, leaving the door noticeably open behind him.

Rick feels uncertain about this -- it’s not exactly a warm welcome -- but Michael looks at them with a wry smile. “After you guys.”

“Gee, I feel better already,” Casey says.

“Are you sure this is a good idea?” Rick asks.

“That went better than last time,” Michael offers. 

Billy’s the one who moves the first, pushing himself off the wall and limping toward the door. “Look on the bright side,” he says, patting Rick on the shoulder while he walks past. “I don’t think he’s got any elephants in there.”

Rick glares, but he has no reply as he follows Billy inside.

-o-

Inside, Jonah’s home is immaculate. In fact, it’s downright spartan with minimalistic furnishing and no decorations. The lights are almost blinding but all artificial, and it’s impossible to tell what room is what since they all include the same basic furniture. 

As it is, Jonah doesn’t seem interested in playing host. He’s perched at a metal desk, staring at a computer screen, typing madly for a moment while the ODS filters inside. Billy settles heavily in a chair, looking positively relieved to be sitting, and Casey lingers by the door while Michael walks purposefully across the room and pulls out a chair from the table to sit close to Jonah. 

Rick’s not entirely sure what to do, so he stands awkwardly in the middle of the room, trying to figure out if he looks threatening with his hands clasped in front of him. He tries stuffing them in his pockets, but then can’t decide if maybe being threatening isn’t such a bad thing.

As it is, no one seems to notice his plight. Instead, Michael is studying Jonah’s screen. “You’ve got a new username.”

Jonah slams the laptop shut. “Of course I do,” he says. “I add a new alias every three months, each of which is retired after exactly three years.”

“So what happens when the alias you use with me runs out?” Michael asks.

Jonah smirks. “Then maybe you’ll leave me the hell alone.”

“We know where you live, genius,” Casey says. “We have your IP address.”

“You only _think_ you do,” Jonah says.

“We have a satellite lock on your location,” Casey says. “Not to mention a host of other technologies that I will not disclose at this time, all enable to ensure that you are at our beck and call.”

Jonah’s face turns a little red, a mixture of frustration and terror growing on his face. 

“Which we only use in emergencies,” Michael interjects calmly.

Jonah seems to sulk, his shoulders slumping. “I don’t like this, Michael,” he says, tapping his fingers on his jeans. “You said it wouldn’t be like this.”

“It’s not like anything,” Michael says, shooting Casey a purposeful look. Casey doesn’t look apologetic. “Look, Jonah, everything is still on track.”

“Then why do I have four CIA operatives in my living room!” Jonah exclaims, getting to his feet and running a hand anxiously through his hair. “One of which is bleeding! Blood! Do you know how many diseases could be in blood? Are you being traced? Followed?”

Jonah’s obvious agitation isn’t reassuring. In fact, Rick’s starting to wonder if Casey’s right, which is more unnerving than Jonah’s behavior. Michael seems determined not to notice, however, and Billy is sitting with his mouth clamped shut, fingers pressed firmly against the wound.

“You know any kind of trackers we have are all emergency-based,” Michael explains easily. “You know how far out we are. You know if we had other resources to track us, we’d be using them.”

Jonah swallows, and he’s clearly trembling, but his eyes settle on Michael.

“We still fully intend to do this mission,” Michael says. “And there’ll be no sign of your involvement.”

“Except you’re already _here,_ ” Jonah says.

“You have this place outfitted so no one can see in,” Michael reminds him. “You’re a ghost here. And now that we’re here, we’re ghosts, too.”

Jonah glances around, looking almost desperate. “What if you were followed....”

“Then we’d be dead,” Michael says. “You know the groups around here. They’re not exactly subtle.”

Jonah still looks like he wants to freak out, and for a moment, Rick thinks he might. But instead, the man takes a few breaths and regards Michael cautiously. “What exactly is it you’re looking for?”

“Just information,” Michael says. He hesitates, eyes flickering briefly toward Billy. “And a place to stay for the night.”

Jonah actually squawks, arms flailing so wildly that Rick’s self defense training almost kicks in. But Jonah’s moan is one of agony, not attack, and Rick tries his best to take his cues from his teammates -- as if that’s some sort of measuring stick now.

Michael is calm. Billy is placid. Casey still looks like he wants to murder someone, which is to say he seems completely normal.

To think, he could have spent the night with Fay. Instead, he trusted the ODS and here he is. In a rainforest in Cambodia in a madman’s house.

Maybe Rick needs to reevaluate his decision making skills.

“Jonah, I know you don’t trust the government, and that’s a good thing,” Michael says. “We don’t trust the government. You know how we work. And you also know that things out there are getting worse. If this doesn’t stop, your jungle isn’t going to be the refuge you want it to be. Help us tonight, and we’ll make that better.”

For a second, Jonah looks like he actually might cry. Rick knows how he feels. The ODS is good at talking you into doing things that you don’t really want to do, at somehow being right even when they’re just _so wrong._

“Besides,” Michael continues, almost oblivious to the obvious tension, “if you let us stay, I’ll make dinner.”

Jonah scoffs. “I never let anyone cook for me,” he says.

Michael smiles. “So you’re cooking?”

Jonah scowls. “I hate you, Michael,” he says, but the venom is gone. There’s still a trace of fear, but the tacit acceptance is impossible to miss. “I hate you so much.”

Rick thinks Jonah should join the club.

-o-

Jonah agrees to let them stay, but that doesn’t exactly make everything perfect. He shows them the spare bedroom and bathroom, but when Billy shuffles his way inside, Jonah immediately pulls out a drop cloth and starts covering all the sparse furniture. “And you’re using your own first aid supplies!” Jonah insists. “And we’re burning any linen that you touch -- and there’s bleach for the floors when you’re done.”

Billy looks both bemused and distressed. “I’m certainly hoping all that won’t be necessary,” he says. “It’s just a flesh wound.”

“They’re all flesh wounds,” Jonah says. “They all bleed. Even a single drop can contaminate. Use the bleach.”

Casey looks ready to protest, but Michael just shakes his head. “Casey, you and Rick take care of Billy.”

“I don’t need one minder, much less two,” Billy says, but the way he’s steadying himself against the table doesn’t exactly back up his point.

Michael can call him on it -- Casey sure looks like he wants to -- but apparently Michael’s feeling unusually diplomatic today. “Probably, but I think Jonah would be happier if there were just one of us out here.”

Rick looks toward Jonah, who is fussing about noisily in what he can only assume is a kitchen.

Billy still looks like he wants to argue, but it’s pretty clear he doesn’t have the energy. Even Rick can see that Michael’s offering him the best of both worlds: a chance for rest and his dignity.

The ODS is full of impossible, stubborn, frustrating men -- but they’re not stupid. Michael knows how to manipulate people and Billy knows when a deal is too good to pass up. The Scot nods his consent.

There’s a brief look of relief on Michael face before he nods at Casey, who moves toward the door. Feeling a bit out of place, Rick watches as Billy winces before following. Casey is already inside, unzipping his pack and unearthing their first aid kit.

Rick hesitates.

“That means you, too, Martinez,” Michael says.

Rick flushes a little. “I just...don’t know what to do,” he admits.

“This is still a mission, same as before,” Michael reminds him. “Always tend to the most pressing issue first.”

Considering this, Rick frowns. At this point, he’s not sure what the most pressing issue is. In fact, there are still huge gaps in his understanding of the mission altogether. The guys had briefed him, but they’d ended up sitting in separate parts of the plane during the long flight over, and Rick had been sandwiched between a yappy woman and a man who snored, so he’s not exactly well rested.

More than that, he’d spent all his time memorizing his cover story that he’s missing more than a few critical details about how they’re actually planning to use those cover stories and take down a network of heroin dealers.

And really, at this point, he’s suddenly realizing that most of this information has come from his teammates themselves, not a file, and he’s learned the hard way that the things they say are actually suspect.

Which is all to say, that Rick’s not sure what the most pressing issue even is anymore. Assumimg he ever did.

Michael rolls his eyes. “Your bleeding teammate.”

“Oh,” Rick says. “Right.” He falters, feeling stupid. He gestures toward Billy. “I’ll just. Be in here.”

Michael snorts, shaking his head while Rick turns toward the room, cheeks burning.

Facing an elephant is terrifying. Somehow, though, facing his team is never any easier.

-o-

When he closes the door behind him, Billy is already lying on the bed. Casey is kneeling on the floor, the first aid kit open on the ground next to him. Rick eases up, hovering behind Casey while the older man undoes the bandage and exposes the wound.

Up close and under the harsh glare of Jonah’s lights, the wound looks worse than Rick thinks it should. It’s about two inches long and when Casey probes the flesh, Rick can see that the cut goes deep into Billy’s flesh, still weeping fresh blood. Rick’s not squeamish, but the sight still turns his stomach a little, and he wonders in horror and awe how Billy walked all day in that condition.

From the bed, Billy smiles. “Michael would tell you that scars aren’t good in our line of work,” he says, winking a bit. “But I think they can make you so much more convincing in the field.”

It’s meant to diffuse the tension, but Rick finds he has a hard time smiling. “Shouldn’t we get this looked at?” he asks.

Casey huffs. “And what do you think I’m doing?” he asks, discarding the soiled bandage and pulling out a water bottle instead.

“I mean by a professional,” Rick says.

Casey pours the water carefully over the wound, using his fingers to clean the area with irrigation. Billy goes stiff under the ministration, and even though he makes no noise, Rick can see the Scot’s fingers gripping the drop cloth. 

“If you can find one, by all means,” Casey says, using a fresh piece of gauze to dab at the bleeding.

“I just...,” Rick fumbles, looking at Billy again, whose eyes are glistening with unshed tears as he clenches his jaw together. “Are you sure you know what you’re doing?”

Casey doesn’t look up, but pulls out the antiseptic. “Do you know why I am so successful as the human weapon?”

It’s not the question Rick expects. “I, um--”

“Because I know how the human body works,” Casey interrupts, applying the antiseptic unflinchingly, even when Billy bucks slightly and makes a small sound of pain. “I know it’s limitations and its functions. This allows me to push my body to its full potential and to capitalize on the weaknesses of others.”

Billy is crying silently now as Casey pads the wound, pressing more gauze on top and taping it down.

“It’s all human anatomy,” Casey continues, securing the bandage even more. “If you know the exact manner to kill a man, you know precisely how to save his life.”

Finished, Casey sits back, his hands dropping. On the bed, Billy is still speechless, breathing heavily while he clearly tries to regain his control.

Behind them, Rick feels out of place. This is not an uncommon feeling, which makes him feel like he should know what to do about it.

He doesn’t.

The silence is strange, and Rick feels guilty when Billy is the one who finally breaks it. He’s sweating badly and his voice sounds strained, but he lifts his head and says, “Fear not, Rick. Casey has saved my life more than once.”

“That’s because you attract trouble in whatever you’re doing,” Casey tells him sternly. 

“What can I say?” Billy says, lips quirking upward. “It’s my charming personality.”

“They tried to kill you,” Casey says. “And any deeper and they would have succeeded.”

Billy shrugs, pushing himself up a little further. It’s a clear effort, and Rick almost wants to help him, but doesn’t really know how. By the time Rick can think of anything, Billy’s already sitting up. “Near death encounters are a talent.”

Casey shakes his head. “Next time I should just let you die.”

Billy’s grin widens, and Rick feels himself relax despite all obvious indications telling him otherwise. “I’d like to see you try,” the Scot cajoles.

Rick hasn’t known Billy that long, but the response is still so typical that it is immediately satisfying. It feels like things are back to normal.

Which is to say that things are still hopelessly out of control, but at least his team is back to being annoyingly unbothered by the likely chaos and doom that awaits him. The fact that Rick already recognizes this and takes some solace in it by the second mission should probably be disconcerting.

Rick’s too busy feeling relieved for that, though.

Before Casey can mount a likely snarky reply, the door opens. “You guys good to go in here?”

Billy gets to his feet. He wobbles slightly, but rights himself before Rick can move closer. “Good enough, at any rate.”

Michael looks to Casey.

Casey nods. “Wound is clean and the bleeding is slowing,” he confirms. “So far there’s no sign of infection.”

“See,” Billy says. “Good enough.”

Michael doesn’t look totally convinced, but he also doesn’t seem inclined to push it. “Okay, then,” he says. “Clean up and everyone out for dinner.”

-o-

Rick hadn’t realized it, but he’s actually really hungry. At the mention of dinner, his stomach starts rumbling and by the time he gets out into what must be the dining area, he’s practically salivating. He sits down anxiously, feeling more than a little vexed when the food is set out in front of them.

“These are...,” he begins, not quite sure how to finish.

“Emergency rations,” Michael concludes for him.

Jonah balks, sitting down and pulling three pouches to himself. “The best damn emergency rations money can buy.”

Casey sits down in one of the vacant chairs. “In some ways, I can appreciate the practicality,” he says, taking two packets for himself.

Billy is the last to arrive, and he’s winded when he sits down, favoring his side. “I suppose beggars can’t be choosers in the Cambodian rainforest, yeah?” he asks, taking a portion for himself.

Rick is still staring. “But they’re for _emergencies,_ ” he says, as if that should mean something to anyone here.

But then he remembers he is in fact the only sane person in the room. Possibly the only sane person for _miles._

“Well, we did conclude earlier this was an emergency,” Michael points out.

“And every day of life is an emergency,” Jonah says, taking a noisy bite. “Come on, you guys knows what goes on in this world.” He snarfs another bite, then shrugs. “Besides, if I buy these I only have to go into town once every six months, which is way better than any other alternative.”

Despite his best efforts to the contrary, Rick still finds himself staring.

Michael shoves a packet at him, and nods.

Rick keeps staring.

Michael rolls his eyes, then turns his attention back to Jonah. “So, Jonah,” he says, opening his own packet. “You think you can tell us who our welcoming committee might have been?”

Jonah grunts. “Could be anyone,” he says. “This far out, people don’t like visitors. Especially from the CIA.”

“They don’t know we’re CIA, genius,” Casey snaps. “We’re a tea company.”

Jonah is unimpressed. “You look like spooks.”

“That notwithstanding,” Michael cuts in carefully. “These guys were heavily armed.”

“And they had elephants,” Rick adds.

Michael gives him a look.

Rick shrugs and finally takes a packet of food. 

“And they were not very friendly, if I may say so myself,” Billy says.

Jonah sighs, starting on his second packet. “Sounds like the newest group, then,” he says.

“Newest?” Michael asks.

Jonah nods. “Most of the groups around here are pretty established, but there’s been some new activity from a neighboring area,” he explains. “They’ve been trying to expand their turf.”

It sounds a little ridiculous to hear someone talking about the Cambodian rainforest in terms for gang warfare, but then, everything is a bit ridiculous about this mission.

“So we came just in time for a turf war?” Casey asks.

“Nah,” Jonah says. “If there was any real danger of that kind of conflict, I’d be out of here.”

“Then why did they attack us?” Michael asks.

“Because you look like spooks!” Jonah exclaims, putting the second packet aside and opening the third. “These guys don’t like outsiders, so everyone looks like spooks if they don’t know them.”

“Seems a bit aggressive,” Casey says. 

Coming from Casey, that’s saying something.

Rick finally cocks his head. “So the newest group -- is it a militia?”

Jonah looks at him, seeming vaguely impressed. “More or less, yeah.”

“Not related to the heroin farms,” Rick ventures.

Jonah makes a face. “Nah, they’re more into arms than drugs,” he says. “They have their own form of martial law this far out.”

“Are they connected to the other groups?” Michael asks.

“Not really,” Jonah says. “They coexist mostly peacefully but that’s only because they haven’t had a reason to get angry at each other yet.”

“So, in theory,” Casey says, “we could still make it to the heroin farms and finish the operation.”

“Sure,” Jonah says. “Just stick to the right paths, and you shouldn’t have a problem.”

Casey looks to Michael, who looks briefly at Rick and then Billy.

“Of course, that assumes they don’t hunt you down,” Jonah says nonchalantly.

Rick’s stomach flips.

“Are they established enough for that?” Michael asks.

“Not really, but they might try,” Jonah says.

Rick shakes his head. “Once they find out we’re clients of someone else, they’d be stupid to risk a war,” he says.

“Sure,” Jonah says. “But if you cross their territory again, you’re fair game.”

“So we don’t cross their territory,” Rick says. “Simple.”

But Michael doesn’t look so reassured.

Rick raises his eyebrows. “Isn’t it?”

“There’s only one access road,” Michael points out.

“Which is where we were ambushed,” Casey says.

“Which is all to say,” Billy says. “We can finish the mission, but we may never leave alive.”

-o-

After dinner, Jonah retreats to his bedroom and locks the door. “But don’t get any ideas,” he warns. “I’ve got full monitoring with video and sound of every inch of this place.”

Michael salutes him and Casey doesn’t hold back his sigh of exasperation as the door switches shut and locks loudly. Billy is sitting unusually still at the table, face still more drawn than normal even after the meal.

Rick let’s out a breath. “So, we can still do this,” he says, because this is why he’s here. This is why he joined the CIA. This is why enduring his teammates’ eccentricities is worthwhile -- because there’s a bigger picture.

Michael nods taking a drink from his glass of water before pursing his lips for a moment. “Yeah, but it’s still a week long mission,” he says.

“And if we miss our meeting tomorrow, we’re screwed,” Casey says.

Rick shrugs. “It’s not that far,” he says. He glances at his watch. “If we leave now, we can still make it.”

Michael looks from Rick to Billy, and Rick understands the implications at the same time as Billy.

“Don’t look at me like that,” Billy says flatly. “You can ask Casey, the wound is clean. I’m good to go.”

“Clean, sure,” Michael says, tapping his fingers on the glass. “But you’re in no condition for a night-long hike.”

“More than that, you have to _keep_ it clean,” Casey says pointedly. “If you go running around the rainforest, you’ll end up with sepsis and die.”

There’s something to that, Rick knows. Most of his first aid training had always recommended that an injury be taken care of promptly and with all precautions. And Rick knows now how quickly things can spiral out of control.

Billy shakes his head. “We can die walking out the door each morning or turning on the coffee pot back at Langley,” he argues. “The odds aren’t that bad against me.”

“Bad enough,” Michael says. He gathers a breath. “We will finish the mission, but you’re not coming.”

Billy’s cheeks are turning red. He swallows, visibly shaking slightly. “Well that’s all well and good for you to say,” he says, eyes determined and hard. “But if you want me to stay, you’re going to have to make me.”

It’s a threat, and it’s so vehement that Rick is almost surprised. His team has never shown him anything but a united front -- usually in insanity -- and seeing them argue amongst themselves is actually unsettling. It’s humanizing, in a way, which is partly why Rick thinks it’s so strange to see. His teammates always seem to have it together, to know what’s going to happen. They have a plan, and Rick’s always the last one to know.

Michael doesn’t flinch. “I know.”

Billy seems to be waiting for more. His mouth is open, and he’s breathing heavily. There’s a tense beat, an uncertain silence, during which Michael’s gaze doesn’t waver and Billy’s eyes narrow--

Then widen. “Michael,” he says, the note of alarm suddenly evident. For a second, he looks lost, eyes darting around before settling on the empty glass of water in front of him. He almost laughs, a short, bitter and incredulous sound before he looks up at Michael again, eyes filled with something like betrayal. “You bastard.”

Michael smiles faintly. “Figured this way you might not blame yourself.”

“And it does avoid the inevitable humiliation of me subduing an injured man,” Casey points out.

Billy’s brow creases in apparent mortification. He starts to look a little desperate. “I trusted you.”

“I know,” Michael replies easily. “Which is why I had to do it.”

Billy chokes on something like a strangled cry, his head dropping forward as his breathing picks up. Michael sits placidly and Casey inches his chair just slightly closer to Billy.

They all seem to know exactly what’s going on.

Which figures. Rick doesn’t have a clue. “Um, am I missing something?”

Billy looks up, eyes flashing with anger. “They drugged me,” he says. “The sons of bitches put it in my water.”

Rick frowns. “I don’t--”

“You’re in no condition to be out in the jungle,” Michael interrupts, looking directly at Billy. “And you’re too stubborn to admit that while the mission is going.”

“Because you need bloody backup,” Billy hisses.

“This is doable as a two-person job,” Michael counters.

“And I can easily do the job of three people all on my own with the right mental fortitude,” Casey says.

Billy’s head drops forward again, his eyes blinking rapidly. He has to brace himself against the table, and his breathing turns ragged. “You just didn’t want to look me in the eye when you left,” he says.

Michael doesn’t deny it. “It’s for your own good.”

When Billy lifts his head again, his eyelids are growing heavy. His neck seems to be having trouble keeping his head upright and his gaze is unfocused. “Cowards,” he murmurs, even as the tension starts to drain from his body. His eyelids start fluttering and he begins to slump. “The lot of you...”

Then Billy slips sideways, starting to fall out of his chair. Rick’s eyes go wide and he fumbles to get to his feet, but Casey is already there, neatly catching the Scotsman as he loses the fight with consciousness.

Michael sighs. “Get him settled in bed,” he says quietly.

Casey nods, grunting as he hoists the taller man up into his arms and carries him with surprising delicacy back toward the spare room. 

At the table, Michael takes another drink while Rick stares at him. “You drugged him?” Rick asks.

Michael puts his glass down, offering a small shrug. “You didn’t think we saved all the good stuff for just you, did you?”

Rick opens his mouth, then closes it. “Yeah, actually,” he says.

Michael smirks, but his eyes are tired. “You’re not the only rookie we’ve had, kid,” he says. “And bastards will always be bastards -- even to each other.”

Rick’s not sure if that’s a warning or a consolation.

He’s starting to think it’s a little of both.


	2. Chapter 2

PART TWO

When Casey comes back out, he doesn’t look pleased. “He’s out like a light,” he remarks, sitting down in his chair.

“The dose I gave him should be good until morning,” Michael says.

“He’s not going to be happy,” Casey says, sounding oddly bothered by that.

Michael clearly has no way of countering that. “He’ll have a chance to recover, though,” he says. “You ready to head out?”

Casey nods. “Just give me five minutes.”

“Good,” Michael says. “I want us on the road in ten.”

Casey gets up, and Michael moves to follow but Rick shakes his head. “What about me?” he asks.

Casey pauses, but Michael gives him a look and he keeps on moving back toward the other room where their packs have been stowed. Michael looks back at him cautiously, and Rick’s stomach drops.

“I meant what I said,” Michael explains. “This is a two-person job.”

Two person, as in Michael and Casey.

As in, his team is leaving him behind.

They dragged him out of his apartment, ruined his chances with Fay, just to _leave him behind._

Rick shakes his head. “It’ll work better with three,” he says. Pleading will have no effect. Logic, though -- logic just might give Rick a chance.

Michael doesn’t hesitate. “What about Billy?”

“What about Billy?” Rick asks. “He’s safe here. It’s not like Jonah’s going to let anyone in.”

Something shift subtly in Michael’s expression, and then he shakes his head. “Decision’s been made, Martinez.”

It’s not quite an order -- it’s a simple declaration. Michael is telling Rick how it is, as if Rick’s not supposed to question it at all. 

Rick’s been trained to follow a chain of command; he believe wholly in giving up himself for the greater good, no matter what that may be. But if there’s anything he’s learned from his time with the ODS, it’s that following orders doesn’t get him very far.

Obstinate, Rick holds his ground. “Fine, two people,” he says. “Me and you. Or me and Casey. I’m not picky.”

It’s a bold sentiment, but Michael hardly seems fazed. In fact, if anything he seems amused in the most condescending fashion imaginable. “How do you think that’s going to go?”

Rick squares his shoulders. “This is my job.”

“We’re all spies.”

“You dragged me from my apartment, after hours, for this,” Rick insists. “I should be out there.”

“I dragged you from your apartment, after hours, because you were trying to sleep with my wife.”

“Ex-wife.”

Michael lifts his eyebrows. “You’re not helping your case.”

Rick breathes in hard, working to control all his conflicting emotions. “I can do this,” he says, employing all his earnestness now. “If this is about you not trusting me--”

Michael doesn’t let him finish. “Malick’s with me,” he says unyieldingly. “You’re with Billy.”

Indignation burns in Rick’s cheeks.

Michael keeps going. “This is a week long mission, but I’m hoping we can pull it off in five days,” he continues. “Our phone access is going to be spotty, but we’ll do nightly check ins on the SAT phone and Jonah’s communication system.”

Rick swallows bitterly. “And what am I supposed to do?”

“Keep Jonah calm -- see if he knows anything else,” Michael suggests. “But mostly, keep Billy from doing something stupid.”

“And if he wants to follow you?” Rick prompts.

Michael holds Rick’s gaze. “Then stop him.”

“How?” Rick persists.

Michael smiles a little. “You’re a trained operative, figure it out,” he says, finally getting to his feet. He pauses. “Though I got to say, I think you may have the harder job.”

Rick works his jaw, not sure what to do. Not sure what to say. “You can trust me, Michael,” he blurts finally.

In the doorway, Michael pauses, looking back. “We’ll see about that.”

-o-

When they leave, Rick doesn’t say goodbye. He stays stubbornly at the table, arms crossed petulantly over his chest. He knows it’s silly -- he also knows it’s pointless -- but he feels like he needs to make it clear just how much he disagrees.

He sits there at the table after they leave because, in all honesty, he doesn’t have anything better to do. He’s still sulking when Jonah finally comes back out.

The asset gives Rick a curious look. “They gone?”

Rick glares. “Yes.”

“So you’re staying?” Jonah asks.

Rick keeps glaring.

Jonah chuckles. “Seems like that’s not the way you wanted it to go.”

“I should be out there,” Rick says. “This is my job.”

Jonah pours himself a glass of water. “I know how you feel, dude,” he says. “That’s how I feel every time I talk to Michael.”

Rick frowns, looking at the other man again, critically this time. “Why do you keep helping him, then?” he asks. “I mean, if you don’t trust the government...”

Jonah shrugs. “Michael’s different,” he says. “I hate him and I don’t trust him with much, but I trust him to do the right thing.”

Inexplicably, Rick feels like scowling.

“Besides,” Jonah says. “How do you think I was able to build a remote compound in a foreign country with that much security?”

“Wait, _Michael…_?”

“He makes good,” Jonah says. “Even if he is a lying, conniving bastard.”

This time, Rick finds himself speechless. Uselessly, he looks at his hands and tries not to think about how he has to spend the next five days here.

Five days of doing nothing while Michael and Casey complete the mission.

Rick hates them even more.

Noisily, he pushes his chair back and gets to his feet. “I’m going to bed.”

Jonah looks surprised. “You want me to have first watch, then?”

Rick makes a face. “You live here alone,” he says. “Who would you normally trade watches with?”

“No one,” Jonah says. “But normally I don’t have two CIA operatives crashed in my place. You guys are nothing but trouble.”

“I thought you said Michael made good,” Rick replies.

“Sure,” Jonah says. “After he almost gets you killed and systematically destroys everything that matters to you.”

Rick can’t deny that he may have a point there.

“So _someone_ is taking watch,” Jonah says. Then he shrugs. “I’m fine for it, though. I’m actually about to start a new game of Minecraft.”

Rick tilts his head. “If you’re playing video games, how are you on watch?”

Jonah looks disgusted. “You have no concept.”

“Um, okay,” Rick says. “In a few hours, Billy’s going to need another bandage change.”

“Check that,” Jonah says with a nod.

“Wait, you’re volunteering to do that, too?” Rick asks, skeptical.

“I saw the cleaning job you guys did last time,” Jonah says. “There were traces of human DNA all over the sink. You didn’t use the bleach, did you?”

“Um.”

“That’s what I thought,” Jonah says. “Look, I don’t want you here. I don’t want Billy here. I really don’t want anyone bleeding here. But since this is all apparently inevitable, I’m going to deal with it my way, okay?”

Rick feels like he should object to this. “But do you know anything about first aid?” he asks.

“I live alone in the Cambodian rainforest,” Jonah says. “Of course I do. Anyway, all that stuff is online.”

Rick shakes his head. “Just wake me up--”

“You don’t trust me?” Jonah asks.

“Well, you don’t trust us,” Rick points out.

“Which is _exactly_ why you should trust me,” Jonah replies. “I mean, it’s simple logic. You can trust me to not trust you.”

“I don’t see--”

“If I don’t want living CIA operatives in my house, why would I want dead ones?” Jonah says finally. “I can handle it. If there’s a problem, I will wake you up. Because I don’t like problems. At all. Even a little.”

Rick sighs. “Yeah,” he says. “I’m going to go to bed.”

“The offer for Minecraft is still available,” Jonah offers, as if it’s tempting.

Rick manages a faint smile before he goes into the living room. Because he’s not going to waste his breath arguing with Jonah. He’s already given everything he had with Michael and it’s not enough. With Jonah, it’s just not even worth it. Maybe things will be different in the morning. Maybe Rick will find some silver lining.

For now, however, Rick’s going to sleep.

Because he literally has nothing better to do.

-o-

That night, Rick dreams of telling his mother he joined the CIA. He remembers the soft noise of dismay she’d made, because she’d thought she was going to lose her precious baby boy.

Rick had deflected, promising her he’d be okay. And even if he wasn’t, it’d be worth it.

Because Rick’s a patriot. Rick’s fighting for his country. Rick does what’s needed.

Then an elephant trumpets, pounding down the walls of his mother’s kitchen and trampling over everything.

On the outside, Billy and Casey and Michael are standing there, laughing. “Trust can be earned, kid.”

Rick’s about to ask how, when the elephant trumpets again. Rick turns, eyes wide as it comes bearing down on him.

And he wakes with a start.

Panting, he stares at the ceiling for a moment, getting his bearings. He’s at Jonah’s house, deep in the rainforest. Billy’s laid up with a stab wound; Michael and Casey are finishing the mission.

And Rick is still here.

Doing nothing.

Groaning, Rick puts the pillow over his face and goes back to sleep.

-o-

When he awakens again, it’s morning. His back hurts from sleeping on the floor -- Jonah only has one spare bed and he apparently doesn’t believe in couches -- but he actually feels decently rested. Not that it’s done much to improve his mood. He still feels frustrated and angry and very much like he’s gotten the short end of the stick.

And he has. He has in every way possible. Ever since he showed up at the CIA, he’s been used and abused and generally treated like his rights and wants and needs don’t matter. He’s always been willing to give himself up to the greater good, but he just feels like a pawn among all the bigger forces around him. The ODS does good work -- and Rick likes being a part of that. 

But he’d prefer actually _being_ a part of that. In action, not just word. Higgins thinks the ODS is a problem, and they are, but not for the reasons Higgins thinks. The ODS is a problem because they’re so damn good at what they do that no one can stand a chance against them. Which is fine, when it’s the bad guys. Not so great when you’re their teammate.

Sulking, Rick makes his way to the kitchen and finds Jonah at the table, laptop propped open in front of him. He’s got a can of Cambodian energy drink next to him and he’s using one hand to tip it back while he clicks madly with the other.

Rick sits at the table and stares.

Jonah doesn’t look up. “Nice sleep?”

“I slept on the floor,” Rick reminds him.

Jonah shrugs indifferently.

Rick rolls his eyes -- not that Jonah notices.

After a few awkward moments of silence, Jonah gestures with one hand over his shoulder. “There are food packets in the cupboard,” he says. “I’m not sure there’s much that tastes like breakfast, but if you’re hungry enough, it’ll do.”

Glancing over to the minimalistic row of cupboards, Rick doesn’t feel particularly encouraged.

“And they’re alphabetized,” Jonah adds. “Newest ones on the top shelf, so stick to the lower. Oh, and please leave everything that starts with G.”

“G?”

Jonah looks up. “It’s my favorite letter. I save G meals for Tuesdays.”

Of course. Michael has left him with a psychotic, paranoid and obsessive-compulsive asset. “No thanks,” Rick finally replies. “Maybe just some coffee.”

“I don’t have coffee,” Jonah says, still clicking away.

Rick raises his eyebrows. “Tea?”

Jonah shakes his head. “That stuff is all locally made around here,” he says. “I don’t trust it. Too much of the legitimate stuff is still funded by cartels. It’s like having blood in your coffee. I can’t stomach it.”

“So what do you drink?” Rick asks, feeling incredulous.

Jonah lifts his can. “This stuff is amazing.”

“You won’t drink coffee, but you drink an energy drink?”

“Imported,” Jonah says. “I did research on its production plant in China. It’s not exactly reputable but they’ve past all safety standards. It’s my one indulgence.”

Rick slumps.

“Or you can have water,” Jonah offers. 

Since this mission just keeps getting better. He wonders what Fay is doing. Rick’s only been gone a few days, but she could have coupled up with someone else. Someone not so stupid as to believe everything her ex-husband says.

Rick is pining. He’s also moping. Not without cause, but he still feels a little sheepish. Trying to perk himself up, he turns his attention back to Jonah. “Hey, what about shift change?”

“Huh?” Jonah asks.

“You said you were taking first shift,” Rick remembers. “So what happened to second shift.”

“Oh,” Jonah says, flitting his chin dismissively. “I was never going to wake you up. I try not to touch people and I never speak out loud when the lights are off.”

There is surely a response to that, but everything Rick can think of is overtly offensive or implying so. He opts to shut his mouth instead.

“And really, I don’t sleep,” Jonah continues. “I think my body is capable of REM sleep while playing the game. And have I mentioned how awesome this drink is?”

“Right,” Rick says slowly. He resettles himself in the chair and glances over his shoulder. “Did you check on Billy?”

“I did,” he says. “Exactly three hours after you went to bed, in case you’re wondering. The dirty bandages have been incinerated and the entire area was cleaned with bleach.”

“The wound?” Rick asks worriedly.

Jonah rolls his eyes. “The floor and the sink. And the chair and possibly the doors and all the handles. Bleach in the wound would be painful -- though I doubt he would have woken up. Guy was out like a light. Didn’t even twitch, which made it a _lot_ easier than I thought it’d be.”

It’s a little unexpected. Jonah was not thrilled about the idea of blood last night, so the idea of him playing nursemaid doesn’t totally make sense. “He’s okay, though?” Rick asks.

At that, Jonah glances up. “I was thorough and efficient,” he reports. “It was damn near textbook. At least, it would be if textbooks were at all relevant anymore.”

Rick’s still not convinced. He’s not happy about being made to stay behind, but if he only has one job -- to make sure Billy’s okay -- it seems like he should do it. Getting up, he goes back toward the spare room.

“Good for you, man,” Jonah says. “Never take someone’s word for it. I respect that.”

Rick clenches his teeth to hold his tongue, cracking the door open to Billy’s room instead. Inside, it’s dim. He can see Billy on the bed, still fully dressed with his stocking feet hanging off the end of the sparse bed. He’s been covered with a thin blanket, and he’s clearly still sleeping, eyes closed and mouth open. From a distance, it looks peaceful.

That’s for the best, Rick knows. Really, he’d rather have the Scotsman awake -- it’d make the morning more tolerable. Billy’s as ridiculous as the rest of the ODS, but he’s sort of fun -- even when he’s lying through his teeth, the guy’s likeable.

At this point, Rick needs anything he can get to make this bearable.

But Billy’s been stabbed, and Rick pissed off and annoyed, but he still knows that’s what this is about to some degree. Yes, it’s about the fact that his team uses him however they see fit, but Billy didn’t get stabbed on purpose.

Rick thinks, anyway.

Frowning, he closes the door.

At the table, Jonah looks at him. “See?”

Rick sighs. It’s going to be a long mission.

-o-

The hours drag.

Rick finally eats something -- he’s not sure what, and he’s not sure he wants to know -- and then Jonah consents to let him take a shower. After that, Rick shaves and repacks his clothes, mostly out of spite. Casey is incredibly efficient at packing.

He’s bored enough that he repacks Billy pack -- which is nothing short of chaos -- and then he walks through the house before finding himself sitting back at the kitchen table. Jonah isn’t there this time; he’d shifted back to his bedroom earlier and explicitly told Rick that he was not to enter under any circumstances, barring death or imminent peril.

He’d then clarified what imminent peril entailed -- for ten minutes.

Rick’s pretty sure he’d rather die than bother Jonah.

And really, he’d actually look forward to imminent peril at this point. Because at least then he’d be doing _something._

Sighing, he stares at the wall. Without any windows, the place is strangely claustrophobic, and the monotonous gray interior makes him feel like the walls are closing in.

He can’t help but think about Michael and Casey. Checking his watch, he knows they must be at their destination by now. They’ve probably already made introductions and started their search. He wonders idly if they still feel that thrill -- that rush of excitement being undercover. Rick’s only felt it once -- and it had been more than enough to make him want _more._

That’s why he’d told Higgins that there was nothing to report about the ODS. That’s why he’d walked out on Fay right when he’d gotten somewhere with her. Not because the ODS was a team above reproach. Not because he even _liked_ them.

But because Rick wants to be a spy. With every fiber of his being, this is what he wants. He craves it. _Needs_ it.

If he’s not a spy, he doesn’t know what he is.

Well, yes he does. He’s nobody. 

He’s an idiot, sitting in a stranger’s house in the middle of nowhere, doing nothing.

Rick sighs again.

-o-

By midday, Jonah has relocated to the living room. Around lunch, he makes a few dinners, offering one to Rick before starting in on one himself.

Rick watches him. “So, what do you _do_ exactly?”

Jonah pauses long enough to look at Rick. “What do you mean?”

Rick nods around. “Here,” he says. “I mean, you have to _do_ something.”

“I’m not sure I understand your implications,” Jonah says.

“You have to earn money somehow,” he says.

Jonah regards him carefully. “Michael really hasn’t told you anything, has he?”

Rick scowls. 

“The man is more paranoid than I am,” Jonah continues with a small chuckle.

“When we get back, I can just look it up in the file,” Rick points out.

“No, you can’t,” Jonah says. “My file is redacted. Heavily.”

Rick sighs. “Come on.”

Jonah sighs back. “Fine,” he says. “Since you’ve already contaminated my place, I suppose I can tell you the basics. I’m a hacker.”

Rick waits for more.

“I would think someone of your generation would be moderately more impressed,” Jonah says sullenly. 

“Like one of the Anonymous hackers?” Rick clarifies.

“I don’t have that much purpose,” Jonah says. “I don’t hack for causes. I just hack. When I find something worthwhile, I can usually sell it.”

Rick can’t stop himself from making a face. “And Michael trusts you?”

“More than he trusts you, apparently,” Jonah says snidely.

It’s a low blow. Unfortunately, Rick wonders if it’s true.

“And Michael knows I don’t sell the stuff that matters,” Jonah says. “At least, not to anyone but him.”

“So you’ve bought his trust,” Rick concludes.

“Whatever works,” Jonah agrees.

“That’s just… _wrong,_ ” Rick says, feeling indignant.

“That’s just life in the shadows,” Jonah tells him. He wrinkles his nose. “Listen to me. Now _I_ sound like a spy.” He shakes his head. “I got to get Michael out of my hair, man. And _soon._ ”

“Well, I’d be happy to leave as soon as I can,” Rick offers.

Jonah smirks. “Then my hospitality is doing the trick.”

It doesn’t warrant a response. Nothing warrants a response. Rick is stupid and useless, and he’s stuck with a paranoid hacker who knows Michael Dorset better than Rick does. Which makes him feel stupider and more useless.

Finally, he pushes his half-eaten lunch aside. “Shouldn’t Billy be up by now?”

Jonah goes back to eating contentedly. “I don’t know.”

Rick checks his watch again. “He’s been out over 12 hours.”

“Michael does favor heavy sedatives,” Jonah says. “If you’re going to put someone out, you may as well do it right.”

Rick looks up, head cocked. “What?”

“What?” Jonah asks. “He hasn’t told you that?”

Rick opens his mouth but when no words come to mind, he has to close it again, trying not to fume. He sort of hates Jonah, but not as much as he hates Michael.

Pushing his chair back, Rick gets to his feet. “I’m going to go check on him,” he says. “He probably needs a bandage change anyway.”

“Fine,” Jonah says after him. “But remember the bleach!”

-o-

It’s saying something that Rick feels relieved when he gets into the spare room. Not that it’s reassuring to see a wounded teammate, but Jonah is driving him nuts and the lack of something meaningful to do is only driving home the point that he’s been deemed superfluous for this mission.

Rick will do the grunt work. Rick will put in the hours. Rick will tolerate anything -- except superfluity. He didn’t join the Agency for accolades, but he did join it to make a difference.

Shoulders sagging, Rick lets his proud facade fall. So much for any of that.

Feeling dejected, this time he crosses the room. “Billy,” he says, voice low. “Hey, Billy.”

He expects the Scot to open his eyes and say something ridiculous. But Billy doesn’t even twitch.

Frowning, Rick hesitates. He knows Billy’s injured, but the man is still a capable spy. He doesn’t imagine anyone in the ODS is caught off guard often and the idea that Rick is able to walk right up to Billy without the other man noticing suggests that something is more than a little wrong.

All things considered, Rick knows Billy needs to rest, but Billy’s silence isn’t normal.

Still, Rick chews his lips, watching a moment longer. He can see the rise and fall of Billy’s chest, hearing the slight puffs of breath as they pass through his open lips. The Scot’s skin is pale in the wan light, but Rick can still see hints of color in his cheeks. Somehow, that doesn’t help much, though. If anything, the entire tableau makes Billy look strangely gaunt.

Then Rick notices the fine sheen of sweat starting to collect near Billy’s hairline.

“Billy?” he tries again. “Can you hear me?”

When there’s no reply again, Rick reaches out, hand making contact with Billy’s shoulder only to pull back abruptly. Because Billy’s skin isn’t just warm -- it’s on fire. Shocked, Rick moves his hand to Billy’s forehead, laying the palm across the skin. His stomach flips uncertainly at the unrelenting burn of a fever.

Billy’s not just injured anymore. Billy’s sick.

Rick pulls his hand away, and looks at the older operative again. Billy’s really sick.

And Rick doesn’t know what to do.

-o-

Rick doesn’t know what to do partly because he doesn’t know what happened. Billy was fine last night -- injured but with no obvious signs of distressed. He’d been drugged and that had been the last Rick had known.

His chest is tight when he storms out of the bedroom. Jonah is still at the table, engrossed at his computer. “What did you do?” Rick demands.

Jonah doesn’t look up. “You’re going to have to be more specific,” he says. “I do a lot of things. This is my house, after all, in case you’ve forgotten where you _invited_ yourselves in here.”

Rick’s anxiety is too high to tolerate the chitchat. He shakes his head. “What did you do to Billy?”

Jonah scoffs. “I told you, I cleaned the wound, changed the bandage and bleached everything.”

Rick crosses the room, slamming the laptop shut. Jonah starts to protest, but Rick refuses to yield. “Billy’s got a fever,” he says. “A bad one. So I’m asking you, what did you do?”

The look on Jonah’s face is one of genuine concern. “Nothing,” he says. “You asked me to change the bandage and make sure it was clean. So I did.”

Rick’s anger starts to abate.

Jonah shrugs, gesturing with one hand. “And then I even took the time to stitch it up--”

Just like that, Rick’s stomach goes cold and his heart skips a beat. “You what?”

“I stitched,” Jonah says, as if it’s the most obvious answer in the world. “I mean, last I checked, gaping wounds in the flesh are generally a bad thing.”

It’s suddenly getting harder to breathe, and Rick’s chest feels unusually tight. His head spins a little, and he turns abruptly, going back into the bedroom and returning to Billy’s side. He hears Jonah’s footsteps behind him, but he doesn’t look back. Instead, he pulls back the sheet of Billy’s bed and lifts the t-shirt. 

“But I sterilized everything,” Jonah continues, sounding a bit defensive now.

Frantic, his fingers tremble as he works with the bandage, gently but swiftly starting to pull it loose.

“He was fine,” Jonah says, insistent. “He didn’t even feel it.”

Rick pulls the bandage away, and his heart sinks. “You leave the wound open,” he says, the words feeling wooden in his mouth. “A wound like this needs to drain. If you close it up, it can get infected and abscess.”

Jonah draws closer, and Rick can feel him just over his shoulder. “I don’t understand.”

Sighing, Rick moves his hand away, revealing the wound more plainly. The entire area is red, and the precise row of black stitches is engulfed by puffy flesh, the cut oozing between the sutures. 

For once, Jonah has no reply.

“Like I said, it’ll get infected and create an abscess,” Rick says numbly, the details of his first aid courses pulsing in futility through his brain as he looks at Billy’s face. “And we’ll have no way of treating it at all.”

-o-

Rick doesn’t know what to do.

All his training and all his years of preparation -- all his posturing and all his demanding -- and the simple fact is, when faced with a situation of uncertainty and peril, he has no clue what he’s doing. He’s usually good at thinking on his feet. His first day on the job, he’d unwittingly jumped in a car with a Russian operative and promptly jumped back out. It had nearly gotten him killed, but it had been the only feasible plan at the time.

And overseas, while rescuing the hostages, when Michael nearly had his fingers chopped off, Rick had just acted. He hadn’t second guessed himself, he’d just blown his cover, talked big, eaten a scorpion and saved the day.

Rick’s been scared more than once since he joined the CIA, but this time, he’s just stuck with the gnawing dread and an inevitable, paralyzing inaction. He’d been indignant and frustrated about having to stay behind. After all, he’d counted himself too skilled to essentially be a babysitter. It hadn’t occurred to him that he might face a different kind of peril entirely by doing so.

Now he’s resentful, a little scared, and completely uncertain. Billy being sick isn’t necessarily a game changer, but Rick’s no medical expert so it’s impossible to assess with much clarity. He also can’t help but feel somewhat responsible. There’s no guarantee Billy wouldn’t have gotten an infection either way, but Rick passed on his responsibilities. Rick’s the one who let Jonah take first watch. He’s the one who trusted Jonah, a relative stranger, with the most important thing -- a teammate’s life.

The weight of that responsibility is daunting, now that Rick has the time to think about it clearly. More so because he’s uncomfortably aware that something bad has happened on his watch.

Part of Rick wants to panic -- he’s in Cambodia with half his team undercover with an asset he doesn’t know with a sick teammate -- but he’s a spy. Spies don’t panic. 

Spies act.

And that’s what Rick needs to do.

-o-

For the most part, the next steps are actually very simple, all anxiety aside. He goes through their first aid kit and sets aside the gauze, antiseptic and Tylenol. It’s not much, but it’s a start, and he clearly has enough to get through the next few days. Then he gets a fresh bowl of water, pouring a glass as well before he goes to Billy’s bedside.

He makes a point to be noisy, because Billy’s his teammate but they’re still relative strangers. Rick feels a responsibility to be there for the man, but it’s still weird, to say the least.

Fortunately, this time, Billy rouses. It seems to be a struggle, and his eyes are heavy as he works to wake up. Even when he finally seems to accomplish the small feat of opening his eyes, Billy looks confused, staring at the ceiling like he’s not sure what’s going on.

It’s not exactly encouraging, and Rick feels more out of place than ever. He silently curses Michael again. If anyone should be playing nursemaid, it should be someone who knows Billy better. Not the new guy.

But he’s not really angry. Well, he is angry, but that’s not what this is about right now. Right now, he’s mostly just scared because he’s in charge and this happened on his watch and he’s not entirely sure what to do.

Inaction is not an option. He scoots his chair closer, and smiles as Billy’s head finally turns toward him.

“Hey,” Rick says, trying to sound as casual as possible. 

Billy takes a long moment. Then, he wets his lips. “I feel worse than I remember.” His face crinkles in apparent uncertainty. “Michael must have used a heavier sedative than normal.”

Rick’s eyebrows go up. “They drug you often?”

“It’s happened a time or two,” Billy admits. “Michael Dorset has an affinity for drugs. He never made it in med school, but he could be a splendid pharmacist were he not such a paranoid bastard.”

“That shouldn’t surprise me,” Rick comments ruefully. Then he finds himself hesitating, unable to look Billy in the eyes.

Billy’s clearly sick, but he still notices. “This isn’t just the sedative, is it?”

Rick girds himself, lifting his eyes to meet Billy’s gaze again. “Your stab wound is infected,” he says plainly. There’s no good way to soften it, and Billy strikes him as the type who wants to know. Rick also knows that there’s probably no lie he could tell Billy that the Scot won’t see through immediately.

Glancing toward his stomach, Billy’s look of consternation deepens. “It looked fine last night.”

“It doesn’t take much,” Rick says, feeling apologetic. He swallows. “While you were out, Jonah stitched it closed.”

Billy’s been cognizant since he woke up, but it still takes him a moment to understand.

“He was trying to be helpful,” Rick explains uselessly.

“But he stopped it from draining,” Billy concludes, the grim realization crossing his features. He shakes his head, shock and disbelief setting in. “Well intentioned bastard buggered me good. Probably read about it online.”

“Probably,” Rick agrees. “I was sleeping. I thought -- I mean, I didn’t think--”

“It’s not your fault,” Billy chides.

“I let him change the bandage,” Rick says guiltily. 

“And Michael drugged me into oblivion,” Billy says. “Casey probably cheered him on. If you go looking for blame, you’ll always find it, and it rarely does anyone much good.”

The absolution is logical and freely given, but it does little to assuage the gnawing doubt in the pit of Rick’s stomach. “I was waiting for you to wake up before we decided whether or not to take out the stitches.”

Paling slightly, Billy looks less than thrilled at the prospect. “I reckon that’s the only feasible choice.”

“It’ll hurt,” Rick says. “And at this point, there’s no guarantee it’ll make any difference. If the infection is advanced...”

Then Billy will need heavy duty antibiotics, and even that might not be enough.

“Worth a try, though,” Billy says. “I always favor action over not.”

That’s the answer Rick was expecting; really, it’s the only answer that makes any sense. The longer the wound is closed, the more time there is for the infection to spread. If they can drain the wound now, there’s a chance they can stop it from getting too serious.

Rick’s known that all along, just like Billy knows it now. Yet, the thought of it...is hard to take. “Are you sure?” he asks.

Billy makes a face, shifting as he tries to sit up. “Unfortunately, yes,” he says, settling himself back against the pillow. 

“I, um,” Rick hesitates. “I’ve never done this before.”

Billy manages a smile. It’s shaky, but there’s a faint sparkle in Billy’s eyes. “Then this shall be a fantastic learning experience,” he says. “Baptism by fire. Getting your hands dirty -- literally!”

Rick’s brow furrows. “I just -- what if I do it wrong?”

Billy huffs breathlessly. “Lad, I’ve been stabbed. I’ve been drugged. I’ve been stitched up and am currently burning with infection. At this point, there’s no wrong you can do that will make much difference.”

“That’s not exactly reassuring,” Rick says.

“Aye,” Billy says with a small grimace. “Well, if it helps, I trust you.”

“Really?” Rick asks.

“You ate a scorpion to save Michael’s hand,” Billy reminds him. “Compared to that, this is nothing.”

-o-

It’s nothing.

Rick tells himself that, repeating the mantra in his head until it’s an unconscious drone in the back of his consciousness. It’s nothing. He’s done more basic sewing in Life Skills back in the eighth grade. This is nothing more than glorified arts and crafts. All he has to do was take the scissors and snip.

It’s nothing.

He tackles the task with his usual energy, starting by sanitizing the scissors. He scrubs them under scalding water then uses the disinfectant in the first aid kit to finish the job. Meticulously, he lays out some extra gauze and tape, placing it all next to the antiseptic so he can clean the wound once he gets it open.

It’s nothing.

But when he takes his place by Billy’s side, he finds himself hesitating. He looks at the exposed wound, still angry and red, and finds it suddenly hard to move. Blinking a few times, he forces himself to breathe.

“It’s not going to get any easier, son,” Billy says finally, disturbing the uncomfortable silence.

Rick startles, looking up at Billy. “I know. I just--” He falters. “You’ll need some painkillers. This is going to hurt.”

“Nothing you can give me will kick in soon enough,” Billy reminds him. He shifts in obvious discomfort on the bed. “Though I reckon I’m due for some Tylenol.”

Rick puts down the scissors, reaching down to snag the Tylenol from the kit. “I’ll just need a moment to get some water--”

Billy snorts. “I’ll take them dry,” he says.

Rick looks at him. “But--”

“But stop finding reasons to delay the inevitable,” Billy says flatly. “It’s not pleasant for either of us, but I suspect the anticipation will be worse than the actual doing.”

Rick is dubious.

Billy holds out his hand plaintively. 

Reluctant, Rick hands over the two pills.

Billy palms them and pops them in his mouth, swallowing with a grimace. His face is scrunched with pain for a moment before he takes a few steadying breaths and nods to Rick. “Alright,” he says staunchly. “Let’s do this.”

Rick’s out of things to fuss over. He’s out of reasons to delay. All that’s left is picking up the scissors, scooting his chair closer and leaning over Billy’s wound. He pauses, swallowing, the scissors hovering just for a moment. Beneath him, Billy’s body is taut with anticipation. 

It’s nothing.

And Rick cuts the first stitch.

-o-

At first, Rick thinks he’s done it wrong. The feeling of the thread beneath his scissors is sickening and surreal, and he has to control a wave of nausea as it gives way and fresh blood and pus oozes free. 

As hard as it is for him, though, he’s pretty sure it’s worse for Billy. The Scot flinches in earnest, fingers fisting in the sheets as he goes stiff. He seems to stop breathing, his jaw locked and his eyes squeezed shut as he turns his head away in what Rick can only imagine is an attempt to salvage his dignity.

Rick wishes he could be so lucky, but then he feels guilty. Billy’s the one with inflamed stitches, and Rick is worrying about himself. The sheepishness is enough to steady himself for the second cut.

It’s not easier than the first, but he doesn’t let himself dwell. He moves on to the third and the fourth, even as blood swells. By the fifth, he has to use a piece of gauze to wipe it away, and Billy hisses, starting to tremble, and Rick does his best not to look as tears start to track down the other man’s cheeks.

Instead, he pushes on. He snips the next stitches with speed and precision, completing the task until the wound is open and seeping, the fiery red flesh revealing the badly infected cut. Rick has to swallow hard, leaning a bit closer to get a better look.

He doesn’t like what he sees. The wound clearly needs to drain, but Rick is hesitant to actively clean it out. The flesh is so raw that Rick can only imagine it’ll be extremely painful -- and he’s not sure it’ll do much good. 

Billy takes a gulping breath. “Don’t stop now,” he says, sounding audibly shaken. “Let’s finish this, aye?”

“It should drain okay--”

“Do the bloody job,” Billy says, curtly now. He’s looking at Rick with shiny eyes. “I don’t fancy pain, but dying a preventable death is even worse.”

He’s right, of course. Rick looks back at the wound and it’s him who wants to cry this time. There’s no place for that. Instead, Rick picks up the water and a clean piece of gauze. He lingers, then opens the wound and flushes it out.

This time, Billy screams, cutting off the sounds with a desperate, strangled noise. He chokes on a cry, writhing for a moment before forcing himself to go very still. It takes all Rick has to keep going, carefully doing what needs to be done.

And hoping it’s enough.

-o-

It takes a painfully long time to finish. Once Rick has flushed the wound and cleansed it, he pulls out the remnants of the stitches, plucking the thread from the inflamed skin. Billy says nothing through it all, and if he whimpers with each pull against the tender flesh, Rick’s not going to say anything about it. 

When he’s done, Rick lightly bandages the wound and suggests Billy lay on his side. The simple movement seems to exhaust the Scot, and he sags heavily into the stark sheets as soon as he’s positioned. 

“Pills should be kicking in,” Rick murmurs.

Billy shivers, eyes only half open. “Better than nothing,” he slurs.

Rick reaches down and snags the blanket, laying it over Billy gently. “Once it drains, it should get better,” he says.

Billy nods, closing his eyes. “I reckon it can’t get much worse.”

Rick feels dumb standing there, but he can’t think of anything else to do or say. Michael would have something simple to make things logical; Casey’s banality would somehow lessen the fear. And if the positions were reversed, Billy would probably be telling jokes or stories, something to distract everyone from the perilous reality.

But Rick’s the new guy. He’s not sure what his role is in all this yet, but he certainly hopes it involves more than standing like an idiot.

Before he can resolve that, however, Rick notices that Billy’s breathing has evened out and his body has eased its tension. His eyes don’t open, and he makes no further attempts to talk.

Still, Rick loiters a moment longer. Billy’s probably right. The number of things that have gone wrong to lead them to this point is pretty impressive. Their luck is bound to turn, just by sheer virtue of the odds.

But then, Rick’s mind goes back to his second day in the office. He remembers Billy, sitting at the table. _I say a lot of things I don’t mean._

Chewing his lip, Rick hopes this isn’t one of them.

-o-

Awkward doesn’t do it justice.

Rick’s felt awkward since he showed up at the ODS and Casey told Billy to put his pants on. He’d been moved to incredulity when they drugged him and ditched him, and he’d been nothing short of mortified when they crashed his second date with Fay. Now he’s holed up in the Cambodian rainforest with a paranoid asset he doesn’t know who inadvertently compromised an operative -- all under Rick’s supposed supervision. Awkward doesn’t do it justice, but there really aren’t any other words for it.

There’s also nothing to be done for it.

This isn’t Rick’s fault, necessarily, but it sort of feels that way. It doesn’t help that there’s literally nothing to do.

He checks on Billy from time to time, but the Scotsman seems to need the sleep, and Rick doesn’t think it’ll do anyone any good if he checks the wound obsessively every thirty minutes. Instead, he peeks in before settling across the table from Jonah.

For his part, Jonah seems just as bothered as Rick is. He has his computer out, but he’s only clicking half heartedly and the moments pass mostly in tense silence. Whenever they accidentally make eye contact, Jonah looks hurriedly away.

Rick sighs. “It’s not your fault.”

“I stitched him up,” Jonah replies.

“Sure, but you were trying to help. You didn’t stab him.”

“I stitched him up,” Jonah says again.

Rick shrugs, trying to be magnanimous. “Sure, but--”

Jonah shakes his head. “But nothing. Michael’s good at what he does and he follows through on promises more often than not. But there’s one thing he never tolerates -- and that’s when somebody messes with his team.”

Rick frowns a little. That’s not the answer he was expecting. Honestly, it’s not an answer that makes much sense. Sure, the guys had talked about being close knit, but they’d followed that up by drugging him, so he takes that with a grain of salt.

Jonah doesn’t seem to notice, though. “That’s why I went the extra distance,” he continues, voice sounding strained now as he runs a hand through his hair. “Because I knew if one of Michael’s guys died in my house, it’d all be over with. He’d never forgive me.”

Rick’s frown deepens. “Michael understands the risks of the game--”

“Yeah,” Jonah says emphatically. “He understands the risks so he can circumvent them. He _never_ risks his team.”

Now, Rick finds himself staring. “We are talking about the same Michael, right?”

“Of course!” Jonah says. He chews his lip before shaking his head. “Billy has to be okay. Maybe I can find some online tips about fighting infection. You think?”

Rick doesn’t know what to say.

Jonah nods to himself, scraping his chair back. “I think,” he mutter. “I’m just going to go and see what I can find. And let me know if anything changes! I may need a complete list of his symptoms!”

There’s no time to reply before Jonah disappears behind his bedroom door. There’s a click of a lock -- and then another -- and Rick is left in silence.

He sighs, glancing back toward Billy’s door. He’s not sure if Jonah’s right or not, but he’s pretty sure he doesn’t want to find out.

-o-

Rick spends the rest of the day trying to look productive. He stares out the two lone windows for extended periods of time under the pretense of checking the perimeter. He reads over the mission files to make himself feel like he’s still part of the mission. He makes Billy a meal and gives him water in the late afternoon, but the Scot is asleep by the time Michael calls to check in that evening.

“You’re sure?” Michael asks.

Rick resists the urge to roll his eyes. “I know what an infection looks like,” he huffs.

“What’s his fever?” Michael asks.

“Been pretty consistent around 102 after Tylenol,” Rick reports. 

“And how is he taking it?”

Rick sighs. “He knows what’s going on,” he says. “But he’s been tired.”

“So he’s not talking your ear off?” Michael asks, sounding a little more concerned.

“Been too tired,” Rick says. There’s a brief, uncertain silence. Rick feels like he should say something, like he should have something more to report. He wants to say something definitive -- to prove he’s a spy worth his mettle -- but he comes up with nothing. It makes him feel a little pathetic, but he still needs to ask. “You think we should do something?”

The indecisive question is hard to give voice to, no matter how necessary it may be. It feels a little like giving up, like he’s giving them justification for all the things they’ve done to him.

On the other end of the line, Michael sighs. “Well, right now it sounds like it’s not too bad,” he says. “I mean, you think he’s fighting it?”

Rick glances toward the closed bedroom door. “I think he’s giving it his best shot. We both are.”

“Then, if you think there’s a chance...” Michael hesitates, and Rick realizes what’s happening. Michael is deferring to him. Michael is asking his opinion.

Finally.

Right when Rick isn’t sure.

His shoulders fall. “I mean, there’s always a chance.”

Michael sighs again. “Getting him out now would be a mess,” he says, more concretely now. “If you’ve got a handle on it and can monitor him, I think we can stick it out and see how it goes. In another 24 hours, we should know which way this is going.”

Just that fast, Michael’s taken back the lead. Rather, Rick’s given it up. It’s a little humiliating. It’s also a relief.

He nods readily. “Okay,” he says. “I can do this.”

There’s another pause before Michael asks. “No idea how it happened? I mean, I know he was stabbed...”

Rick’s stomach flipped. He’d avoided that part. It’d been foolish, he knew, but he’d told himself that explaining that Billy was sick was more important that explaining how it happened. Still, he’d known all along that Michael would want to know.

“Jonah, he -- I mean, when I was sleeping,” Rick starts, fumbling badly. He takes a breath and continues. “Jonah changed the bandage and tried to help by stitching the wound. With Billy being drugged, he slept through it and he didn’t wake up until the next day so I didn’t...I mean, I didn’t realize.”

The silence that follows is terse, and Rick finds himself bracing.

“He slept through it?” Michael asks, sounding bitter.

“I should have checked on him sooner,” Rick says quickly, feeling apologetic. The guilt swells now. “I shouldn’t have let Jonah near him at all--”

“Well, it’s too late for that,” Michael says gruffly.

Rick’s grateful that across the telephone connection, Michael can’t see his cheeks redden.

Then, Michael sighs again even more wearily than before. “We can hash out the should-have’s later,” he says with more than a note of resignation. “Right now, I need you on your game. I need you to keep Billy’s wound clean and keep him hydrated. We want to give him the best chances possible to kick this thing so we have time to finish the mission.”

“So it’s going okay?” Rick asks.

“Don’t you have a enough to worry about, Martinez?”

Rick clamps his mouth shut.

“We’ll call tomorrow, at the same time,” Michael says without any further ado.

Numbly, Rick nods. “I’m sorry.”

“Just...do what you can,” Michael tells him before he abruptly cuts off the call.

Rick puts down the phone and looks at it for a moment. He’ll do what he can.

He’s just not sure there’s anything he really _can_ do.


	3. Chapter 3

Despite all obvious indications that Rick is useless, he makes the most of himself. This has always been the way he is, after all. His teachers called him a go-getter, and every boss he’d ever had had always gushed about how self-motivated he was.

At least, until the ODS. Michael Dorset hazed him and used him as he saw fit. And Higgins wasn’t really much better, even if he did seem to be less sneaky about it. 

But none of that would be for a lack of trying, as far as Rick’s concerned. This is why he always shows up on time; this is why he pulls late hours. This is why he takes extra time to memorize the ancillary materials in a mission file and always volunteers to do the hard jobs first. Because that’s who Rick is. He’s a self-starter; he’s highly motivated. He pursues excellence even when no one asks it of him. 

So he checks on Billy like clockwork, changing the bandage every other hour and flushing out the wound when it seems to need it. He plies Billy with Tylenol every four hours and makes sure the Scot drink consistently. He scours through Jonah’s cabinets and finds something that resembles chicken broth and makes it for Billy.

When he takes it in, Billy rouses slightly. It seems like he wants to go back to sleep, but when Rick places the food on the small bedside table, Billy opens his eyes and looks at Rick wearily.

Rick smiles apologetically. “You need to eat.”

Billy makes a small face. “Not to sound ungrateful,” he says, “but the thought of food in a pouch rather turns my stomach.”

Rick chortles under his breath. “I respect that, actually,” he says. “Which is why I made you soup.”

Billy cranes his head, eyeing the steaming bowl. “Soup?”

“As best I can tell,” Rick says, pulling the chair up closer. “It doesn’t have much for noodles in it, but it at least has the right consistency.”

With effort, Billy maneuvers himself upward. He winces as he settles gingerly against the pillows. Rick doesn’t wait to be asked but reaches over and picks up the bowl, offering it to Billy who accepts it wordlessly. Rick doesn’t comment in reply, not even when Billy’s hands shake slightly as he picks up the spoon and takes his first bite.

He swallows, then smiles at Rick. “Chicken,” he muses. “I imagine your mother used to make that for you when you were a wee lad under the weather.”

Rick can’t help but smile a little. “She made good soup,” he confirms. “But her specialty is asopao.”

“A delightful Puerto Rican treat,” Billy says before taking another bite. “That’s not common, you know.”

“For Puerto Rican food to be good?” Rick asks.

“No, for people with happy families to end up in the spy game,” Billy says. He looks wistful for a moment. “It’s not a life for the normally well adjusted.”

“I don’t know about that,” Rick says. “I mean, you guys...”

He trails off, the words dying in his throat when he realizes what he’s saying.

Billy just smiles at him. “We’re paranoid bastards for a reason,” he says. “Safe to assume, our mothers didn’t go around cooking asopao.”

Rick feels silly now.

“But I must say, I approve of having such a family-oriented type on the team,” he says, nodding to his soup. “Your efforts in the kitchen are much better than Michael’s and your bedside manner is a vast improvement over Casey’s. All things considered, I feel as though I’m in the most capable of hands.”

It’s a compliment; it’s also a way out of the awkward dead end conversation Rick’s been having. He’s grateful for that, which makes him feel even more sheepish. Billy’s the one with an infected knife wound; Rick should be the one doling out comfort.

“It’s the least I can do,” Rick says.

“Hardly!” Billy says. “Never underestimate the power of diligence.” He nods knowingly. “You have your part to play in this team.”

Rick scoffs. “Doesn’t seem that way.”

“Give it time,” Billy advises. “If nothing else you, you can be our resident soup maker. This is delicious.”

Rick laughs. “I was hoping for something more than that.”

Billy swallows another mouthful. “We all have to start somewhere,” he says. “Trust me.”

Rick still wants to argue, but it doesn’t seem right. Not with Billy in the bed, fever still burning in his cheeks as he favors his side.

Instead, he smiles back. “Yeah, I guess,” he says. “Now eat up. When you’re done, we’re changing your bandage.”

Billy makes a face. “That’s not exactly inspiring.”

“No, but it’s necessary,” Rick says, no nonsense.

“I reckon you got that from your mother, too,” Billy says.

“What?”

“The mother hen,” Billy says. “It suits you.”

“I’m not a mother hen,” Rick says, a touch of petulance in his voice. He furrows his brow. “Now eat before it gets cold.”

Billy smirks. “Cluck, cluck.”

-o-

That night, Rick sleeps in Billy’s room. The couch is uncomfortable anyway, so Rick stacks as many spare blankets as he can scrounge up and makes a mattress for himself by the wall. Billy looks both amused and humiliated, but merely makes a quip about having a slumber party before he drifts off to sleep.

Rick isn’t surprised. After their late dinner, Rick had cleaned Billy’s wound thoroughly again, leaving the Scotsman spent and exhausted. With another few pills, it had been all Billy could do to keep his eyes open, and Rick figured sleep was better than anything else.

Jonah has been a ghost of a presence, but he’d lingered in the doorway long enough to ask if Billy was okay. Rick didn’t have much to report, but he merely said they’d know more in the morning.

Curling up on his side, eyes on the bed, Rick just hopes it’s good news.

-o-

In the morning, Rick wakes to the sound of movement. In a flash, his eyes pop open and he sits upright, at the ready. 

“Easy, lad,” Billy says from the bed. He’s grinning a little. “Though I am impressed with your reaction time.”

Rick slumps slightly and does his best not to feel petulant. Then, he looks at Billy and realizes that the Scotsman is sitting up, legs draped over the side of the bed. He’s still favoring his side and he’s paler than normal, but the twinkle in his eyes is back.

Brightening, Rick gets to his feet. “You’re feeling better?” he asks, daring to be hopeful. “I mean, you’re looking like you feel better.”

Billy chuckles, pushing himself to his feet. He wavers, and Rick hovers close, but Billy finds his equilibrium on his own. “I’ll feel better after a trip to the toilet and a warm shower, but I think the fever’s gone down.”

Rick casts a glance toward the bandage.

Billy rolls his eyes. “I’ll let you have a crack at it after I spend some time in the bathroom.”

Rick hesitates. “Are you sure you’re up for that?”

“I haven’t showered since we left the United States,” Billy reminds him pointedly. “I think at this point it’s a vital necessity.”

Rick reddens. “I just...don’t want you to overdo it.”

Billy smiles. “And there’s the mother hen,” he cajoles.

Rick sighs. “I’m not a mother hen.”

“You are an _adorable_ mother hen,” Billy tells him.

“Maybe you should go take your shower,” Rick suggests.

Billy’s grin widens. “I couldn’t have come up with a better suggestion myself.”

-o-

Rick finds himself loitering in the bedroom. He tidies his space and then changes the sheets on Billy’s bed. When he tries to find the laundry for the dirty sheets, Jonah makes a face and directs him to the incinerator instead.

After that, Rick organizes the supplies and tries not to watch the door. He listens as the shower runs and then turns off. When Billy finally comes out, Rick is on his feet and staring.

Billy stops in the doorway and stares back.

“I, um,” Rick starts to say. He frowns. “We need to bandage your wound.”

“You seem quite eager to do that,” Billy observes, walking carefully back to his freshly made bed. “Did you change the sheets?”

“Maybe,” Rick says. “You know, nevermind.”

“I think that’s cute,” Billy comments.

“It’s sanitary,” Rick says gruffly.

“You really aren’t working in the right direction against that mother hen image,” Billy points out.

Face red, Rick glares. “How about this then?” he says. “Sit down and shut up, because I know your weakness right now and you keep talking like this and I won’t be afraid to use it.”

Billy looks at him, eyebrows lifted. “Threats of physical violence? I’m impressed,” he says. Then he winks. “Course it’d be much more convincing were you so not so obviously distressed about my well being.”

Rick lets his shoulders sag. “Just sit down. Please?”

Billy nods, turning to sit himself gently down on the bed. He gives Rick a winning smile. “See?” he says. “All you had to do was ask.”

-o-

At this point, Rick’s pretty good with first aid. He’s learned more about the practical applications in one day than all his training at the Farm. He checks the wound efficiently, and notes that it does seem to be clean -- and it’s still draining. That’s the good news.

Still, Rick finds himself frowning. “It’s still pretty red,” he observes, touching the tender flesh gently.

Billy stifles a hiss. “Well, stab wounds have a tendency to be like that.”

It’s deflection; Rick’s not sure he’s buying it. “It still doesn’t look good.”

Billy yelps as Rick’s fingers probe slightly harder. “Well, I’ll admit that it doesn’t feel great either,” he says. “But my fever is gone. My energy levels have rebounded. I’d say that’s a step in the right direction, yeah?”

Rick reaches for fresh gauze. “I guess,” he says, starting to put the gauze in place. “I’d feel better if we had a doctor look at it.”

Billy snorts. “Who needs a doctor when I have my own mother hen?”

Rick narrows his eyes and shakes his head. “You’re not going to let that drop, are you?”

Billy beams at him. “Not since I found out how much you like it.”

Ducking his head, Rick tries not to sulk. “I hate you.”

Billy just laughs.

And Rick hates him a little more.

-o-

Rick has his reservations, but Billy’s pretty hard to talk down once he has his mind set on something. Rick offers to bring him breakfast in bed, but Billy balks, insisting that it’s too early in their relationship for such measures when his legs are perfectly capable of walking ten feet.

Rick can’t completely disagree, even if he thinks being cautious would be more prudent, but before he can come up with some sort of compromise, Billy is already at the door.

Getting hurriedly to his feet, Rick follows, and he follows Billy into the kitchen. 

Jonah is at the table, laptop set up, and he looks up with a ready smile. “Billy!” he says enthusiastically. Then his face goes serious. “How do you feel? Are you experiencing hot flashes? Heart palpitations? Dizziness?”

With a small laugh, Billy sits down across from him. “Let’s focus on the positive instead,” he says congenially. “Perhaps some breakfast?”

Jonah gets up, at the ready. “I have some excellent packets for scrambled eggs and bacon.”

Billy forces a smile. “That sounds...interesting.”

“If you add salsa, it’s not so bad,” Jonah says.

“And you have salsa?” Billy asks.

“It’s one of the few foods I stock,” Jonah tells him. “It’s sort of my weakness. That, and coconut milk.”

“Good choices,” Billy observes. “Processed protein and salsa it is!”

Jonah smiles, almost in giddy relief. Then, he hesitates. “I’m...you know, sorry,” he says.

“You were trying to do what you thought was best,” Billy tells him sympathetically. “And trust me, I’ve made far bigger mistakes than that.”

“I would never have -- I mean, if I have known,” Jonah says.

“No worries, mate,” Billy tells him. “Now how about that breakfast?”

-o-

Breakfast is good. Sure, the eggs and bacon taste like cardboard but the salsa’s not bad. And Billy’s so upbeat that it’s hard not to enjoy it. He’s cracking jokes and telling stories, and soon they’re all laughing.

Rick’s still not happy about a lot of this. He’s not happy that Billy’s wound got infected; he’s not happy that he got left behind. But he thinks it could probably be worse.

For now, that’s enough.

-o-

The morning passes uneventfully. Jonah retreats back to his room after a few paranoid rants about the government, and Billy sighs, seeming to sink deeper into his chair.

Rick fiddles with his glass for a moment, glancing at Billy and then looking uselessly around the room. He chews his lips and weighs his options.

“You may as well ask,” Billy finally says.

Rick’s head snaps up. “What?”

“About the mission,” Billy surmises. His eyes are steady on Rick. “You’re wondering about the mission.”

It’s true. Rick’s been doing his best not to think about it, but the fact is, it’s all there is to think about. He’s wondering how Michael and Casey are faring; how their covers are holding. He’s wondering about the intrigue, the action. He wonders if there’s been action, if their true spy skills have been put to the test.

He wonders what it’d be like to be there. Rick still has his cover memorized. His name is David Cordon, and he’s from New York City. He’s had a rough childhood, but he found his niche in the business market and is the newest member of the team. His expertise is Asian leafs. 

But now he’s just Rick Martinez, holed up in a safe house of sorts, doing nothing.

“I’m not thinking about the mission,” Rick lies.

Billy smiles. “The trick to lying is to create a falsehood with some basis in reality,” he says. “That statement is simply too audacious to stand.”

Rick sighs. “Okay, fine,” he says. “I might be thinking about it a little.”

“They’re fine, you know,” Billy says.

“Oh, and that’s why you tried to go after them even with a knife wound?” Rick asks.

Billy chuckles. “Aye, you have a point,” he says. “But it’s just second nature to protect your team. There’s a reason none of us have families.”

“Michael was married,” Rick points out.

“And is currently divorced,” Billy reminds him. He shakes his head. “The term brothers-in-arms is quite apt, and none of us like leaving that to chance.”

That’s not exactly the answer Rick was expecting. In truth, it’s not what he’s been thinking about at all. He frowns. “So it doesn’t bother you that they drugged you and ditched you?” he asks.

“Of course it does,” Billy says. “But I know why they did it. Because they want to protect me as much as I want to protect them. That’s what a team is about; that’s trust.” He shrugs. “Besides, I was more upset with myself for not seeing it coming. I’ve worked with Michael Dorset too long not to see such antics in advance. And I still fell for it like a rookie.”

Rick scowls.

Billy’s grin turns mischievous. “Present company most definitely included.”

“You were all being so nice!”

“And that should have been your first tip off,” Billy says. He pauses, face falling just a little. Rick notices that he looks tired, pale, and when the Scot continues, his voice is less full of gusto. “But I can’t call you on that now, can I? Present situation considered.”

Rick could quip, but instead he shrugs. “You sure you’re feeling okay?”

Billy waves his hand through the air. “Just tired,” he says. “Being stabbed is rather taxing.”

“Maybe we should check the wound,” Rick suggests.

“If it’s all the same to you, my dignity would prefer to do it myself this time,” Billy says, pushing himself to his feet.

Rick stands, starting to protest.

“I can change a bandage,” Billy assures him. “And I can clean it.”

Rick isn’t sure, but it seems reasonable. And Billy’s been compliant and upbeat all day. If he’s on the mend, then there’s no harm. “You’ll let me know if you need something?”

Billy nods dutifully. “I wouldn’t call anyone else.”

There’s no one else to call, but Rick lets that pass. “I’ll check on you for dinner,” he says. “And that time, I _am_ checking your wound.”

Billy’s eyes light up.

Rick holds up his hand. “So help me God, if you cluck at me--”

Billy pretends to sulk as he makes his way back to the bedroom. “You ruin all my fun,” he says. 

“I can live with that.” 

-o-

Rick spends the afternoon trying to decide if he’s bored, worried or simply restless. He’s probably a little of all three, and he finally gets so desperate that he agrees to play Jonah in some video games. After about four hours of Call of Duty, he glances at his watch.

“Billy’s due for a bandage change,” he says. “And then we should eat.”

“I’ll warm up some dinner!” Jonah volunteers with undue enthusiasm.

Rick smirks. “Don’t put yourself out there.”

“Hey,” Jonah says. “Those meals are first class. They don’t come cheap.”

“So you pay through the nose for inedible crap?” Rick asks.

“Highly advanced, completely nutritious, self sufficient meals,” Jonah clarifies. “When the world succumbs to a zombie infection or aliens invade from outspace, I can outlast you all.”

“I’ll take that under consideration,” Rick says as he makes his way to the bedroom.

“Don’t come calling for me when the zombies start eating people!” Jonah calls after him.

Rick doesn’t turn around, shaking his head. “Will do!”

-o-

In reality, Rick’s feeling almost chipper. Yes, he’s been left behind by his teammates, but all things considered, it could be worse. This mission will be over sooner rather than later, and if he can just gut it through the next few days of survivalist food, he’ll be no worse for wear.

In fact, he thinks maybe this will be a turning point. Maybe a critical bonding experience. Maybe if he plays the part well enough, his team won’t think to sideline him again. Maybe he’ll gain Billy’s trust and have better insights into the inner workings of his team.

But when he opens the door, Billy doesn’t stir.

He knocks. “Hey, Billy,” he says.

There’s no sound from the bed.

Frowning, Rick steps inside, leaving the door ajar as he steps closer toward the bed. “Jonah’s making dinner,” he says. “And it’s time to change your bandage.”

When there’s still no stirring from the recumbent Scot, Rick crosses the rest of the distance, reaching down to shake the other man.

That’s when he feels the heat.

The fever hadn’t been gone that morning, but it’d been better. It’s clearly back now, though Rick tries to remind himself that’s probably normal. Fevers spike in the late afternoon, and Billy hasn’t been taking Tylenol as regularly today.

But Billy still doesn’t stir at Rick’s touch, and that’s worrisome.

He shakes Billy again, looking intently at the other man’s face. “Billy,” he says. “You need to wake up.”

This time, Billy’s face twitches, face contorting in something like pain before he sighs and eases back into what is clearly unconsciousness now.

For a moment, Rick stops. He’s been here before; the scene is eerily similar.

Which is why it doesn’t make sense. Billy had been getting better. The fever had gone down, the wound was draining, Billy had been upbeat. Rick had assumed...

His stomach bottoms out.

Rick had assumed. He’d been there before, too. He’d assumed that Jonah would clean the wound and leave it be, and instead he’d stitched it up. Rick had assumed Billy was just sleeping off the effects of the drugs, and instead he’d been burning with infection.

Suddenly Rick’s assumption that Billy had been getting better isn’t such a sure bet anymore.

His fingers shaking, he throws back the sheet. Billy shivers in response, but makes no further movements as Rick lifts up his shirt. Carefully, he removes the bandage and his heart sinks at what he sees.

The wound is starkly red now, still swollen and seeping. There’s more than a little discoloration, and Rick’s no medical expert but it’s starting to look like an abscess.

This is a turning point, after all. Just not the one Rick had been hoping for.

-o-

Wordlessly, Rick cleans the wound. Billy whimpers, muttering a few times, but when Rick’s done, the other man lapses back into a deeper sleep, mouth slightly open as he breathes heavily. Rick loiters for a moment, idly arranging the sheet, but his feet are heavy and his stomach is in knots when he goes back out.

Jonah is already at the topic, tapping away at his laptop while he downs his meals. “I left a good selection for you two,” he says. He glances up. “Billy not feeling up for it?”

Rick swallows. “The fever’s back,” he says, the words like ash in his mouth. 

Jonah stares at him for a moment.

“It’s worse,” Rick clarifies.

Jonah blinks. “Worse, like, he’ll be eating dinner in bed?” he asks slowly.

Rick wants to say yes. Rick wants to pretend. He wants to go back, to change this, to make it different. But all he can do is stand there, hands useless at his sides. “Worse.”

Jonah’s shoulders fall, his face going slack.

Rick nods hollowly. “A lot worse.”

-o-

Rick is numb, but Jonah seems to go into survival mode. This is probably a fall back for the other man, because he starts stockpiling supplies into Billy’s room for no discernible reason. He stacks boxes of gauze and sterile sheets, lining up bottles of bleach and producing a mop. When that isn’t enough to quell his nervous energy, he boils water and soaks washcloths in tepid water.

A lot of it is pointless, but it’s well intentioned -- and this time it’s not going to hurt anything. And it leaves Rick alone, sitting next to Billy’s bedside with one of the washcloths, laying fresh ones across the Scot’s flushed brow in a seemingly futile attempt to cool him down.

He rouses Billy on and off, forcing him to drink some water. To Billy’s credit, he seems to try helping, but his eyes are bleary and more water runs down his chin than into his mouth before he is pulled back under by the fever.

Sitting there, he envies Jonah. With his puttering about and organizing, the asset can pretend there’s still something useful to be done. Here, watching the infection ravage Billy’s body, Rick can harbor no such delusion.

He can only change the washcloth, check his watch and bide his time.

While Billy gets worse.

-o-

When Rick’s phone rings, he answers before the first chime ends. “Michael,” he says, the word fast and rushed.

“Good to hear from you, too,” Michael quips on the other end through a haze of crackle on the line.

Rick swallows, eyes skittering toward Billy. The Scotsman’s sweat-soaked figure is a reminder that Rick’s too scared to be embarrassed. “Billy’s worse.”

There’s a brief moment of feedback between them. “Worse?” Michael asks, the sarcastic humor evaporating from his voice.

“Fever’s higher, the infection spread,” Rick reports.

The static flares again, obscuring what Rick thinks must be a curse. “You sure the infection’s spread?”

“I think it’s starting to abscess,” Rick admits.

This time, there is no question that Michael curses.

“I think we need to get him out of here,” Rick continues, his hands starting to sweat.

There’s a string of feedback, Michael’s voice cutting in and out. “--have you tried -- because there’s -- mission’s complicated. Rick?”

Rick shakes his head, pressing his finger to his ear and turning away to raise his voice. “You’re breaking up.”

“You should -- wait. We’ll try -- back -- can’t -- four days,” Michael voices comes intermittently.

“You’re saying you still won’t be back for four days?” Rick tries to clarify. “What do you want me to do?”

“No, we’ll -- mission, but Billy -- it’s up to you.”

Rick’s heart starts to race again. “So you’re not coming?” he asks again. “How am I supposed to get Billy out of here by myself? What about the local militia? He’s bad, Michael. I don’t know if I can do it.”

The crackling intensifies again. “--no choice. We’ll -- mission. Billy’s -- up to you.”

Face flushing, Rick feels a little like panicking. He’d wanted answer; he wanted clear direction. For once, all he wanted was to follow an order, no questions asked.

“I don’t think I can do this alone,” Rick says.

“Martinez?” Michael’s voice comes. “--we’re not -- mission.”

“I don’t care about the mission,” Rick retorts. “What about Billy?”

But this time, the static blares so loudly that Rick has to pull the phone away from his ear. It spikes again, before the line goes dead.

-o-

Rick tries to call back, but it won’t connect. He holds it for nearly ten minutes, but there’s no further contact.

There’s nothing.

Rick’s not even sure what conversation he just had. He doesn’t know the status of the mission; he doesn’t know if Michael’s even aware just how serious Billy’s condition is. All he knows is that Michael’s thinking about the mission, and Billy is Rick’s responsibility.  
 _  
Up to you.  
_  
He looks at Billy, stomach so taut, he feels like being sick.

It’s the vote of confidence he’s wanted, but now that he has it, he’d do anything to get rid of it. Because he knows how to improvise in the field. He knows how to fight through to the end of a mission. 

But he doesn’t know how to do this.

With Billy sleeping fitfully on the bed, fire raging through him, Rick just doesn’t know.

-o-

Numbly, he sits next to Billy again. He places the phone with shaking fingers on the bedside table and reaches for the washcloth instead. It’s still damp but warm to the touch, and Rick swaps it out with a fresh one.

As he applies it, Billy murmurs, his head turning slightly and his eyes blinking open. This has happened more than once, so Rick doesn’t get his hopes up. “The team?” Billy asks, the words a mess of slurred syllables.

Rick smooths the washcloth over the Scot’s hair, folding it gently across his brow. “They’re okay,” he says, almost out of reflex. It’s the only thing Billy’s asked about since the fever spiked again. And Rick has no medicine, so if a wishful truth is the only comfort he can offer, he’ll give it.

Billy blinks a few times, eyes glassy and unfocused. He stirs, a bit agitated. “We need to help them--”

Rick moves a hand to Billy’s shoulder, gripping it steadily. “Hey, I don’t think you’re up to going anywhere right now.”

Face distressed, Billy is almost whining. “The team,” he says, practically begging now as his eyes finally lock on Rick’s. “The team comes first.”

It’s such an earnest statement, that Rick doesn’t know what to say. He stares dumbly back at Billy’s fever-clouded eyes, mouth hanging open, words of empty encouragement suddenly stuck in his throat.

Then, Billy’s eyes lose their focus again, eyelid drifting closed as he slips back into unconsciousness.

Rick can’t tear his gaze away, though. Billy wasn’t even lucid, but everything he says makes sense. It makes perfect sense. It’s a question of priorities, which, Rick realizes, really isn’t a question at all.

Just like that, Rick knows what he has to do.

-o-

Jonah’s in his bedroom, but Rick doesn’t care much about the other man’s privacy at this point. He slams his fist on the door. “Jonah,” he calls. “ _Jonah._ ”

There’s no response, and Rick rolls his eyes, gritting his teeth.

Slamming on the door again, he is all but yelling now. “Open the door or I swear to you, I will open it for you.”

There’s still no reply.

“Jonah, open the door or I will publish your identity including your IP address the instant we get back to the States and I will make sure that you can never live in privacy _ever again._ ”

He’s about to pound his fist again, when the locks start opening. The door swings open, and Jonah stares at him, paled faced and wide eyed. “I was in the middle of a _game--_ ”

“Yeah, and Billy’s sick,” Rick reminds him.

“I know!” Jonah says. “This is my best method of stress relief. I felt like I was in the way, and I didn’t--”

“I don’t care, okay?” Rick says. “I just talked to Michael.”

Jonah stops, and for a moment his eyes are hopeful. It’s almost painful to see, if only because Rick knows how he feels. Rick knows how much he’d counted on that phone call from Michael, how much he wanted that call to fix _everything._

The sense of disappointment is close to loss, and Rick feels it building dangerously in his gut. He can’t give into it, though. He’s a spy.

This is his responsibility now. 

“This is up to us now,” he says.

It seems impossible, but Jonah’s eyes widen even further. “But we don’t know anything! We can’t -- how can we -- he’s going to _die_ \-- and _I killed him--_ ”

“No, just -- no,” Rick says. “You need to calm down. We need to calm down.”

Jonah still seems close to hyperventilating.

Rick remains resolute. “I have a plan.”

“You do?” Jonah asks, sounding young and stupid.

It just makes Rick feel even more certain. “Do you have a car?”

-o-

Rick doesn’t wait for Jonah to answer. Instead, he turns sharply, going over to the gear the team left stowed in the living room. Jonah, gaping, trails after him.

“What do you mean, do I have a car?” Jonah asks.

Rick unzips a pack, throwing unnecessary contents aside and keeping the important stuff -- weapons and coordination codes and the extra SAT phone. “It’s a simple question,” he says, rezipping the pack and getting back to his feet. “Do you have a car?”

“I live in the middle of nowhere,” Jonah says. “Of course I have a car. I have a very nice car. Completely tricked out and strong enough to stand up to almost anything short of a nuclear blast.”

“Perfect,” Rick says. “I need your keys.”

Jonah stops. “I, um. My keys?”

“Yeah,” Rick says. “I’m going to need them to drive Billy out of here.”

Jonah’s mouth drops open. “No,” he protests. “I mean, my car, it’s for--”

“Emergencies?” Rick interjects unflinchingly. “You mean in case you accidentally kill CIA operatives?”

This time, the blood drains from Jonah’s face. He shakes his head. “It’s literally my last resort,” he says. “It’s my only method of transportation.”

“Well, if it makes you feel better, I do intend to get it back to you,” Rick says.

“But you’ll expose me!”

“Maybe,” Rick says with a nod. “But if you don’t let me go and Billy dies, you’ll have a CIA extraction team touching down in your backyard. Then you really will be exposed and not just for living here. But for being a CIA asset. Is that what you want?”

Jonah looks like he’s ready to cry. “I never wanted any of this.”

Guilt pangs in Rick’s gut. He doesn’t take any pleasure in this. He doesn’t like being the bad guy. He doesn’t like using fear and blunt tactics to get what he wants; that’s not what he signed up to do.

But his job is to save Billy. And right now, Rick know of only one way to do that -- and he’ll use whatever means necessary.

Suddenly he knows what it feels like to be a right bastard. He’s not bad for the sake of being bad. He’s bad for the sake of being good.

“I know,” he says resolutely. “So give me the keys and let’s make it better.”

-o-

The car is in one of the exterior buildings. Jonah has to enter three passcodes and undo two manual locks. Even after all that, he seems reluctant to give Rick the keys. “You’ll get him out?” Jonah asks. “It’s going to be okay?”

It’s a simple question, but not one with an easy answer. The truth is, Rick has no idea what he’s doing. He’s in foreign territory with a very sick teammate. He has no backup and very few resources. If something goes wrong, he’s virtually on his own. Sure he has some weaponry on hand, but there are armed men out there -- a lot of them -- who may be more than ready for a rematch. If that happens...

Well, then Rick will have bigger problems than trying to return Jonah’s car.

That’s not what Jonah wants to hear, though. More than that, it’s not what Jonah needs to hear.

Rick breathes deeply. “I promise,” he says, holding Jonah’s gaze, “I’m going to do everything in my power to make that happen.”

Jonah nods and exhales, then hands Rick the keys.

-o-

It’s easy to get the car around to the front of the house, and Rick has it loaded with the gear he’s deemed necessary for the trip. He brings up the GPS and programs in the fastest route to the closest hospital. It’s actually not that far -- once he gets out of the rainforest.

Rick chooses not to think about how meaningful that stipulation is.

Instead, he needs to get Billy in the car first.

His resolve falters when he reenters Billy’s room, and Rick wishes not for the first time that he had some validation that he was making the right choice. It seems like a dramatic choice, but he’s seen Billy’s wound. He’s felt Billy’s fever. He knows that if left untreated any longer, this infection may very well take Billy’s life.

Rick’s still the new guy on the team, and he’s hated them more than once in his time with the Agency, but the idea of letting Billy die...

It can’t happen.

Determined, he crosses toward Billy’s bed, pulling back the sheet. “Okay, Billy,” he says, lifting one of Billy’s arms and dragging it over his shoulder. “Time to go.”

Billy makes a small mewling sound, his head dropping back while Rick positions himself alongside Billy. It’s not an easy task, and he grunts as he kneels lower, hooking his other hand under Billy’s legs and hefting upward. The Scot is taller than he is, and his limbs are gangly and awkward as Rick strains under the weight. He can feel the heat of Billy’s fever, though, which is all the motivation he needs to just keep going.

Straightening, he takes a moment to adjust his grip, trying to bob Billy’s head against his shoulder with limited success. Billy’s body looks uncomfortable in his grip, but Rick thinks he may be even more uncomfortable trying to carry the weight, so he decides it’s a wash and starts moving.

Jonah meets him at the door, hovering worriedly as Rick tries to maneuver his way out of the bedroom without knocking Billy against the doorframe.

“The road’s really easy to find,” Jonah explains. “I’ll open the back gate remotely so you can get out clean.”

Rick grunts, inching past Jonah as he bears Billy through the living room. “If Michael comes this way--”

Jonah is following him, nodding readily. “I’ll direct him your way,” he says. “But you should be careful. I mean, the road’s not far but there’s always activity around here.”

Rick’s face reddens as he reaches the door. “That’s not really very helpful.”

Jonah rushes around, opening the front door for him. “It’s just a warning,” he says. “I mean, you guys are CIA. You’re like superheroes. I’ve seen the stuff Michael can pull off. If you’re with him, this sort of thing should be a walk in the park, right?”

A walk in the part that included gun-toting enemies riding around on elephants. _Elephants._

Not to mention sick teammates.

Rick smiles hollowly. “Sure,” he says, breathing strained as he hoists Billy higher in his arms. “Piece of cake.”

Jonah looks distressed again. “For what it’s worth, I’m sorry.”

Rick glances at Billy, and he can’t help but think about how he slept instead of standing watch, how he yielded his responsibilities once and Billy is paying for it now. “Yeah,” he says. “Me, too.”

-o-

Jonah doesn’t go outside, which Rick figures is just as well. Jonah is a mess at this point, apologizing and fretting and worrying. It’s hard to say if his paranoia is a result of living by himself or if it merely drove him to this lifestyle, but Rick doesn’t have time to care.

He only has time for Billy.

Getting down to the car is nothing short of exhausting, and Rick does everything he can not to drop the older operative. Still, when he stumbles the last of the distance, his arms are aching and his back is screaming while sweat starts to soak into his shirt. It’s almost a herculean effort to open the back door of the car, and he half drops Billy into the seat with an oof.

The physical relief almost makes him feel even worse, and he hurriedly moves around to the other door, opening it to pull Billy in and rest him more comfortably on the seat. He frowns, trying to get the middle seat belt to fit around Billy for added security, and as he rolls Billy gently into place, the Scot rouses.

Surprised, Rick pulls back. “Billy? You with me?”

Billy’s eyes flutter, and he looks around hazily. “Wha...where are we?” he says, the words thickly accented and hard to make out.

“Jonah’s car,” he explains.

Billy’s brow creases in total confusion.

Rick plasters a smile on his face. “It’s okay.”

“The mission?” Billy asks, his voice so small that he sounds somewhat like a child.

Rick’s breath catches. “I’ve got it under control,” he promises vaguely. 

Billy nods, and his eyes start to close again. But his hand reaches up, grasping Rick’s arm, and when Rick looks again, Billy’s blue eyes are bright and fixed on Rick. “I trust you,” he says. “Completely.”

Rick’s too dumbfounded to speak, and then Billy’s grip loosens, his eyes rolling back as he goes limp on the seat once more.

It’s certain that Billy’s not lucid, but somehow that just makes it worse. Because when Billy’s lucid, he lies and fibs. Maybe his guises are so practiced that he can use them even when semi-conscious.

Or maybe he means it.

Maybe he trusts Rick.

Which makes the fact that Rick has no idea what he’s doing even worse -- and success is even more important.

Gritting his teeth, he snaps the buckle into place and closes the door.

It’s time to go.

-o-

It starts off well.

Rick makes it through the back of Jonah’s compound, hands tight on the wheel. The back gate is easy to find among the brush, and just as promised, it swings open as he approaches.

It’s a bumpy transition to the access road, and Rick finds himself bouncing all over the place as he tries to keep the car on the road. He has to give Jonah credit, though. He’s picked a sturdy car, which seems pretty adept at off roading.

Still, he’s relieved with the trees thin and the road appears. The car jars as he drives them onto the blacktop. The road is pitted and more than a little uneven, but it’s still a significant improvement, and Rick anxiously presses down on the gas.

The engine purrs, and Rick pushes it faster, glancing at Billy in the rearview mirror.

“Just hold on,” Rick says. He levels his eyes at the road, tighten his grip and keeps on going. “It’s going to be okay.”

-o-

The first few miles pass in a blur. The evening is starting to fall, but the visibility is still good. Regardless, Rick’s so tense that he almost forgets to breathe, and when his fingers finally start to loosen, he realizes that they actually ache. He nervously checks the mirror; it’s impossible to tell for sure that Billy’s breathing, but sometimes his face scrunches up in pain when they hit a pot hole or a rut in the road.

It’s something. Rick doesn’t know whether to feel guilty or just relieved.

Either way.

He thinks he can do this.

And then he looks up and sees the elephant, standing smack in the middle of the road.

-o-

Rick slams on the brakes.

The car responds beautifully, tires screeching as his brakes grind. He comes to a skidding halt, just shy of the creature, still standing stoically in front of him in the growing twilight.

Heart pounding, Rick doesn’t move for a moment. He’s sweating in earnest now, rivulets running down his temples and trickling down his back. His throat is tight; his blood is loud as it rushes through his ears.

An elephant.  
 _  
An elephant.  
_  
There can’t be that many wild elephants in Cambodia; they’re endangered. What are the odds?

Rick’s stomach flips ominously.

The odds aren’t good that he’d run into a wild elephant. But there are more than wild elephants around here.

Rick’s mind flashes back to the militia; he remembers the ever-present thought of being trampled. Even now, the elephant seems to be glaring at him, like it knows him.

He knows this elephant.

Which means, it’s not alone.

-o-

Panicked, Rick slams the gear into reverse, jamming his foot on the accelerator. The car lurches, the tires spinning to find traction as Rick jerks the wheel hard and skids backward. The sudden movement seems to startle the elephant, which rears back and trumpets.

As if Rick doesn’t have enough motivation to move.

His rear tires thunk down, off the blacktop, and Rick hits the brakes again while changing out of reverse. He is pressing down on the gas, turning in the other direction when the men with guns finally appear.

The first volley of gunfire makes him flinch, and he jerks down reflexively as the exterior pings repeatedly with machine gun fire. He knows Jonah said it was bulletproof, but Rick’s not really wanting to find out the hard way if that’s somewhat of an exaggeration.

The car is jostled violently as Rick hits the road again, and he swerves, keeping the car as unsteady as he can. A steady target is too easy to hit.

Of course, it isn’t ideal with Billy strapped down in the backseat.

Still, Rick doesn’t have a lot of options.

It occurs to him for a moment that he doesn’t really know what he’s doing now. He’s fleeing, but where? He can’t go back to Jonah’s. And this road doesn’t go anywhere useful. He needs the hospital, and the deeper he gets into the rainforest, the fewer exits he has.

Mostly, he’s letting them run him into a dead end.

Rick curses, and his entire body feels light. His head is pulsing; his fingers tingling. 

He can’t run away from this.

So he’ll have to run though.

It’s a split second decision, and he doesn’t have time to think through how stupid it probably is. How likely he is to get himself and Billy killed.

There’s just time to spin the wheel, just barely easing off the brakes, and hoping for the best.

-o-

Rick’s practice and trained in every area possible, but it occurs to him one second after he turns the wheel that he’s not well practiced in evasive driving. This isn’t unexpected; it’s not exactly easy to try out reckless driving maneuvers. He’d thought that would be okay.

Now, he’s not so sure.

Because, it occurs to him vaguely, if he screws this up, he’s probably going to die. 

Rick doesn’t want to die. And he certainly doesn’t want to die on his second mission because he didn’t practice evasive driving and went to sleep instead of changing his teammate’s bandage on his own. They probably wouldn’t even give him a star for this, just based on his stupidity alone.

That thought is enough to gird him, and he bears down as he brings the car around, willing it to stay on its tires as he turns until he’s gone 180 degrees. He doesn’t give himself a second to appreciate the velocity at which he just completed such a maneuver; instead, he presses down on the gas and floors it.

The engines roars into action as Rick pushes the car forward. He can see now there’s just one vehicle following him, which is the good news.

The bad news is that the people in the car are armed, dangerous, and in his way.

Rick can’t change most of that. 

But that last part...

Rick thinks maybe there’s a chance.

Setting his jaw, Rick pushes the pedal all the way to the floor.

-o-

When Rick was a kid, his older brothers used to play chicken on their bikes. They used the empty dead end street around the corner from their house, setting up on each end before starting right at each other. For his brothers, it was a game of skill and nuance. They learned each other’s tells, to figure out who was going to pull out first.

Rick had rarely been interested in the game. He’d had other concerns and other interests, but the summer he finally rode his bike to the dead end, his brothers were only too eager to have him play along. That first day -- was also his last.

Mostly because Rick always won. Every game, without fail. The last game, his oldest brother had jerked so hard at the last moment that he’d crashed his bike, scraping up his elbow badly and bending his front tire. He’d gotten up and declared their game over.

“But I’m good!” Rick had protested. “Aren’t I good?”

“You’re stupid,” his brother had told him. “You don’t understand the game.”

Rick frowned. “The person who turns first loses, right?”

“Sure,” his other brother said. “But you _never_ turn.”

“That’s because I want to win!” Rick said.

“And that’s why you’re stupid,” his oldest brother said. “That’s how you get killed.”

Rick hadn’t understood. All he’d known was that he’d won. That was how Rick lived: nothing held back. All in.

It’s been years since he played chicken, but he’s just as much all in. He’s going to win.

Or he’s going to die.

He thinks of Billy, and has a moment of doubt.

His eyes settle on the road, and there’s no time to second guess. At their rate of speed, with the distance between them, Rick can’t pull away.

The other car charges back and gunfire erupts again, nicking off the hood, one striking the bulletproof window. Rick doesn’t even flinch this time.

It’s him.

Or it’s them.

Him.

Them.

Him.  
 _  
Them.  
_  
They’re a split second from collision, so close Rick can see the whites of the other driver’s eyes in the gathering dark, right as they get wider.

And then the other car jerks. They’re so close that collision is somewhat unavoidable, and the two cars scrape noisily, and Rick has to tighten his grip on the steering wheel as the entire car shimmies and metal screeches. For a moment, Rick worries that something is going to give, but Jonah’s sturdy car is everything the asset promised it would be. It doesn’t yield, and the other cars loses control, spinning off toward the brush and trees. Rick looks in the mirror in time to see it bank hard, tipping as it careens uncontrollably into the trees.  
 _  
Him.  
_  
-o-

The surge of adrenaline is intoxicating, and Rick whoops giddily as they power down the road. He passes the other group of men -- standing by the elephant. A few manage to fire at him, but he’s too far and he’s too fast. A few bullets ping harmlessly off the exterior, but they can’t stop him and the elephant trumpets in something like frustration as Rick takes a curve in the road and they all fade away.

It’s a rush. Victory, and not just over a game of chicken. He’s a spy, and this is why. This is how. Michael had him stay behind, but Rick’s skilled and he’s capable -- and this proves it.

He’s faced the bad guys; he’s face the elephant; he won.

He _won._

Then he looks in the rearview mirror again. Billy is still sprawled in the backseat, sweatsoaked and unconscious. Rick’s guilt spikes.

He hasn’t won yet.

“I’ve got this,” he says to Billy. “We’re almost there now.”

He looks back at the road and doesn’t slow down. 

“We’re almost there.”

-o-

They’re almost there.

But not close enough.

They make it another mile when something shudders in the engine. Rick’s brow creases as he checks his gauges. Lights start to flick on when there’s another guttural screech and the car lurches. Rick’s heart skip a beat, but there’s no time to do anything when there’s a horrific clang and his steering goes out and the engine sputters.

He has no control now, and the car jerks. He fights at the wheel, but it’s still a mostly wild departure as the road turns and the car keeps going straight, right into the brush.

There’s a bump as they go off the pavement, and the brush scrapes against the car. The trees loom ahead and Rick can’t help but yelp as the car clips one of the trees, sending them spinning off deeper into the trees. 

The tree that stops them is massive, and its looming trunk is square in Rick’s windshield. He cringes, bracing himself as the car impacts violently. There’s a violent noise and a drastic jolt before Rick realizes he’ll never win a game of chicken against a tree.


	4. Chapter 4

Consciousness doesn’t quite leave him, but everything goes fuzzy and dark, and Rick is aware that time is passing, but he doesn’t quite know what to do about it. More than that, he doesn’t think he _can_ do anything about it because his head doesn’t feel quite connected to his body.

It is, though. Which is why it hurts.

He squeezes his eyes shut, suddenly aware of the throbbing in his head, pounding in time to the rhythm of his heart.

Groaning, he forces his head up from where it’s slumped on the steering wheel. The small movement sends fiery pain through his neck, and when he finally opens his eyes, everything seems out of focus.

He blinks a few more times until it all seems to settle, and he sits up the rest of the way, swallowing hard against the nausea in his stomach. From this position, Rick can see through the cracked windshield -- not that there’s much to see. The view is nothing but tree trunks and foliage, which doesn’t bode well for their predicament. 

Fumbling, he reaches for his seatbelt, absently wiping away at the blood that’s trickling down the side of his face. He winces as he loosens the belt, reaching with a shaky hand to the door. “Billy?” he calls. “You okay back there?”

He doesn’t expect a response -- the Scot had been unconscious before this all started -- but the question is pressing at the back of his mind.

“Billy?”

The door sticks, and Rick jiggles it. With a grunt of frustration, he slams himself into it, jarring his head and nearly turning his stomach. The effort is worthwhile, though, and the door swings open, hanging wildly on its hinges, as Rick stumbles out into the rainforest.

His knees threaten to give way, and he has to brace himself against the car, trying desperately to get his vision to stop spinning again. It takes a few moments before he’s steady, and when he looks up, he suddenly feels lucky.

The car is in shambles. The front end is crumpled like an accordion, disfigured and clearly totalled. Given the sounds the car had made before the steering had given out, he hadn’t been too hopeful about its condition, but after the crash, it’s pretty clear the car’s not going anywhere.

So much for returning it when he was done.

Still, given the damage, Rick knows that it’s fortunate that he hasn’t incurred more serious injuries. Yes, his head hurts but everything else seems in working order. There’s no way to tell just yet about internal injuries, but the pain is diffuse, so he’s feeling optimistic.

Until he looks in the back and sees Billy, hanging off the edge of the seat, flushed faced turned toward Rick, looking more dead than alive.

-o-

Rick thinks he’ll run out of adrenaline sooner or later on this job. He figures at some point, all this peril will become commonplace. Someday, he’ll face these kinds of situations with grit and tenacity, no questions asked.

Someday, maybe.

Not today.

Rick’s adrenaline is surging again, this time in fear. The throbbing in his skull only exacerbates the problem, and he’s practically hysterical as he flails to open the rear door. 

It takes some effort, but when it pops open, it’s Rick’s sheer force that makes him stumble. He lands hard on the forest floor, jarring his senses, and when he gets woodenly back to his feet, he feels marginally less unhinged.

Even so, the fear is hard to contain as he sidles alongside the recumbent Scotsman.

The seatbelt has done its job, but with Billy laid across the seat, there was only so much it could do. Billy’s upper body has been thrown forward by the force of impact, and now he’s precariously positioned on the bench, barely held in place by the belt secured awkwardly across his hips.

The effect may have spared Billy from further injuries -- he can hope, anyway -- but the sprawled position makes him look strangely like a ragdoll, and Billy’s total helplessness is more than a little unnerving.

With a steadying breath, Rick squeezes farther in, gently lifting Billy back against the seat. “Billy,” he says, tilting Billy’s face carefully toward him as he tries not to think about whiplash or any other such injuries. “Billy?”

Billy’s face creases in what looks like pain, and a faint whimper escapes his lips. When there’s no other reply, Rick moves his trembling fingers to the seatbelt, unlatching it and retracting it out of the way. 

When that’s done, he runs a hand over Billy’s brow, refusing to flinch at the swelling heat. Chest tight, he forces himself to breathe as he reaches down again, lifting Billy’s loose sleep shirt to check for further damage.

Even with the gathering night, Rick can tell the bandage is red.

Rick freezes, too terrified to move. The bandage is red -- not soaked, but clearly bloody. It had mostly stopped bleeding at Jonah’s safe house; it’d been seeping pus, but the bleeding had been minimal. It had been about the only thing working in Billy’s favor.

Now they don’t even have that. The force of the impact has aggravated Billy’s wound. The infection is still strong, and now there’s blood loss to contend with as well. Even if Rick gets it under control quickly, he’s not sure Billy can endure another complication.

Sitting back on his heels, Rick realizes this is more than another complication. This isn’t just a reopened wound. This is being stranded in the middle of the Cambodian rainforest with no viable means of transportation. With no backup.

Probably with angry gunmen looking for them.

Billy may not survive this complication -- and Rick realizes with sudden clarity that he might not either.

-o-

Suddenly, Rick wants to panic.

It’s not an uncommon feeling for him, really. During his time with the ODS, he’s been struck with such an overwhelming sensation more than once. When he’d realized he’d just jumped in a car with a Russian spy. When he’d been on his knees with a man wielding a knife. When he woke up and found himself captured by terrorists. When Casey had run off in the desert and left him to die.

Panic.

It’s actually a good sensation, because it pushes you to action. Make it or break it.

Rick’s made it every other time.

He can do it again.

He has to.

Pushing the panic aside, he reassess their situation. It’s not good, that much is certain, but Rick is aware that it could, in fact, be worse. The car is actually fairly well secured -- the crash took them off the road and well into the brush, which may obscure them from any passing vehicles. A thorough search of the forest wouldn’t hide them, but they’re not in the open, which prevents them from being sitting ducks.

Plus, the car may be totaled, but it’s relatively safe shelter. Rick’s not entirely sure what may be out in the jungle at night, but he’s fairly certain he doesn’t want to find out the hard way. The crash disabled the car but it doesn’t seem to be in danger of exploding or catching fire, which means that Rick can use it as a temporary hideout until morning breaks.

He still has supplies, so he can tend to Billy’s wound. And he still has the phone.

The phone.

Michael and Casey’s cover is tenuous -- calling them is out. But maybe he can call Langley. He’s not sure what they can do remotely, but there’s a chance.

With renewed vigor, Rick reaches over, snagging the pack from where it’d been stowed on the floor. The idea of hope is almost intoxicating, and he eagerly powers up the phone.

Just for it to flash _No signal._

Maybe from the road, he’d have a signal. Maybe back at Jonah’s house. Maybe anywhere but _here._

Rick’s eyes flit back to Billy. Here’s all he’s got. Moving in the night with Billy...

It’d be suicide.

He sighs, reigning in the gnawing fear that staying out the night may suicide, too.

-o-

The situation is bleak, but Rick’s not one to dwell on the gloomy details. Rick perseveres over obstacles. Rick prevails when others give up. Rick takes a problem and makes a solution. He’s a self-starter, a go-getter. He was top of his class, best of the best all through high school, college, CIA training. Hell, Rick was even an Eagle Scout.

If anyone can do this, it’s Rick.

Stranded in the rainforest with an injured teammate, it may not _seem_ like there’s much to be done, but Rick is quick to get to work.

He starts by securing the car, as best he can. He makes a quick sweep of the forest and does his best to disguise the trail. It’s not perfect, but in the dark, he figures they’re mostly secluded.

With that settled, Rick settles in the car. It’s a hard fit, but he shoves the front seats as far up as he can in order to make a nest for himself. The forest is too dark to see much, but he feels good being close to Billy and having a clear shot. The fact that his head is out of the line of fire is a nice perk, too.

He checks their guns next, and it’s all to be expected. He keeps one on him and stows the others nearby, keeping the bag so it’s pressed against his leg. Even in the dark, he knows right where it is.

Using an emergency flashlight -- because it’s pitch black now -- Rick checks on Billy again, and finds the Scot much the same. It’s hard to find a perch for the light, and even when he does, the illumination is sparse and inconsistent. In the haloed glow, he carefully peels away the soiled bandage, wincing as he looks at the wound again.

The bleeding seems to have slowed, and Rick uses one of the water bottles to soak a fresh piece of gauze to clear away the drying blood. When it’s clean, he peers closer, trying to see how much of the stained flesh is from the blood and how much is from the infection. Either way, the wound is still warm to the touch, and the foul smell can’t be a good sign.

Gently, he trickles water through the wound before using another piece of gauze to pad it properly before securing the bandage once more.

Then, he sits back again. Billy hasn’t moved, and now that Rick’s out of practical things to do, he’s reminded how helpless he is.

His eyes flit across Billy’s face.

He’s reminded how helpless _Billy_ is.

With a shaky breath, he tries to smile. “We’ll just wait through the night,” he says, trying to sound conversation. He’s pretty sure he just sounds stupid. Unfortunately, Billy’s not exactly in a position to call him on it. He shrugs awkwardly. “It won’t be so bad.”

It’s a stupid promise because it’s probably a lie. And for the first time, Rick understands why maybe Billy says a lot of things he doesn’t mean.

Maybe it’s not because he’s a bastard (even if he is). Maybe it’s because he’s trying to protect Rick. Maybe he’ll ask Billy someday. When this is over.

Rick looks away guiltily.

He so wants this to be over.

-o-

At the CIA, Rick has rarely gotten what he wants. This is no different.

The night is slow -- almost painfully so. Wedged on the floor, Rick manages to sleep for a bit, but every sound in the jungle jars him awake and has him reaching for a gun. Even when he does doze off, he seems acutely aware of the ticking seconds and how they never seem to end.

It’s the longest night of his life.

Especially because he’s not sure morning will be any better.

-o-

Rick startles.

He realizes immediately that he’s been asleep, and from the crick in his neck, it was a longer stretch than before. He shifts, igniting a deep ache through his back and he winces as he tries to rearrange his legs in the cramped space.

And then he hears the noise.

Just that fast, he’s on high alert. He lifts the gun, trying to prop himself up further to get a look out the windows--

Then he realizes the noise is closer than that. 

His eyes widen.

“Billy?” he asks, shifting his weight forward and scrambling painfully to his knees.

On the seat, Billy stirs, his eyelid fluttering as his head rolls. In the early dawn, Billy’s complexion looks horribly and his hair is sweaty, sticking up at odder angles than usual.

“Hey, Billy,” Rick says again, unable to contain the smile of relief from crossing his face.

He’s even more relieved when Billy’s head rolls back toward him, his eyes struggling open and settling on Rick’s face.

“You’re missing all the fun,” Rick says, as easily as possible. “We even ran into that elephant again.”

Billy blinks owlishly, his breathing starting to pick up its pace. “Casey likes pink elephants,” he says. “I prefer green ones, myself, but any will really do.”

Billy’s tone is so serious, that at first, Rick doesn’t know what to say. Then, he chuckles. “Um, I know you like to mess with me, but that’s not even funny.”

Billy heaves now, shaking his head emphatically. “Then what about the walruses?”

It’s so weird that Rick doesn’t know any other response but to laugh.

But then, Billy’s forehead creases. “I can feel their tusks, _stabbing me,_ ” he says, almost whining now. He squeezes his eyes shut, whimpering. “It’s on _fire._ ”

Now Rick’s too numb to speak; he can barely breathe. Because Billy’s awake and he’s talking...

And he’s entirely incoherent.

“I know,” Rick says dumbly, because he can’t think of anything else. “Let me see about that, okay?”

It’s not clear if Billy hears him, but when Rick reaches down to lift his shirt, the Scotsman recoils, breaking off with a hiss and a sob as he flails.

“Easy,” Rick coaxes, gently but firmly moving Billy’s hands away. “Easy.”

Billy strains, his eyes slitting open as he looks, unseeing, at the ceiling.

“Easy,” Rick says again, softer now as he works at the bandage. It comes away, and Rick is prepared for the familiar, if unpleasant, sight of the infection wound. He’s used to puss and oozing; he’s used to swelling and redness. 

But in the pale light, Rick can see immediately that something has changed. The wound is darker, and when Rick pokes closer, he can see the blackened point of a defined abscess.

Worse still, there are streaks of red, vibrant against Billy’s waxy skin, stretching out from the wound across Billy’s abdomen. 

The infection has spread. It’s in his blood.

The morning has definitely gotten worse.

-o-

For a moment, Rick is all too aware of how _little_ time has passed. The night has seemed interminably slow, but the fact is, it’s only been a few short days since they arrived in Cambodia. Rick hasn’t even been employed at the CIA for a month.

Yet, here he is. On his own with a totaled car and a wounded teammate in hostile territory.

This is the job he signed up for.

Only not _at all._

Not that he doesn’t want to serve his country, but he always counted on having a clearer sense of what to do. Of having a perfectly defined mission with all the rights and wrongs understood and heeded. That was what he had trained for. That was what he’d been willing to die for.

But here, with Billy lapsing in and out of consciousness before him, nothing is that simple. This isn’t exactly the mission, and Rick doesn’t even know what he’ll do if he gets them out of here. He’s not sure if he’s making the right choice.

He just knows he’s making the _only_ choice.

Swallowing, he nods. “Okay,” he says, his voice sounding far too loud and tinny in the car. He nods again. “Okay.”

Billy doesn’t reply, but Rick doesn’t expect him to. Instead, Rick hastily repacks the bag, holstering the loaded pistol at his side. When he feels adequately prepared, he opens the door and steps out into the rainforest.

Though it is secluded, Rick hardly feels alone. The trees titter and the insects buzz. He stands very still for a long moment, listening for any other distinguishing sounds. Men marching; guns cocking.

Elephants trampling.

There’s no sign of that, though, and Rick knows that can change pretty fast, but it’s something. At this point, Rick will take what he can get.

His gaze drifts back to Billy. It’s not like he has any other choice.

“Okay,” he says again, ducking back down and reaching toward Billy. It’s cumbersome work, but he grasps Billy under the arms, hefting him up and dragging him across the seat. 

At the movement, Billy makes a noise, but Rick is too set on his task to stop now. When he gets Billy to the door, he pauses, shifting his footing and propping Billy against himself while he repositions himself to support the taller man’s weight.

Rick thinks he’s ready for it, but the unwieldy limbs are still formidable and Rick staggers, almost dropping Billy as he tries to get his body maneuvered correctly. It takes a moment, and Rick can feel sweat start to collect on his brow already. Still, he persists, and he finally manages to hoist Billy up and over his shoulder.

It’s not ideal, and Rick knows that. Not only is the Scotsman heavy, but Rick is too aware that he could be injuring Billy further. It could irritate the wound; it could make it bleed again.

It’s the only viable option, though. He can’t stay here; Billy will die. The Scot’s height makes the idea of carrying him any other way unfeasible. A fireman’s carry is simply the only option.

Gritting his teeth, Rick adjusts the figure over his shoulder, trying not to notice the strain on his shoulders or the hot, wet stain already seeping onto his back.

This is the way it has to be.

With Billy secure, Rick takes a brief second to orient himself. He just needs to find the road and start walking.

He just needs to get Billy out of here.  
 _  
Now.  
_  
Rick takes his first step, and he doesn’t look back.

-o-

Over the years, Rick has turned himself into an acceptable athlete. He’s rarely the fastest or the strongest, but he can win at most things from pure determination alone. Usually, he just wants to win more than anyone else.

But what he has in tenacity, he lacks in skill. Which is why he almost always can win a sprint but has trouble in long distances. He can burst past anyone with a short, powered thrust of adrenaline. Sustaining that...

Is harder.

Even so, Rick’s no quitter, but he has to admit, he’s never had a task quite as hard as this one. It’s not just the abstract fears -- about getting caught, getting shot, getting killed -- it’s the simple physical strain.

He’s in the rainforest, after all. The heat is sweltering and the air is thick with moisture. Insect prickle his skin, and he’s drenched with sweat. And Casey was right about the leeches. It’s made worse since he isn’t running on the road. It’d still be hot on the pavement, but the terrain would be even and predictable. In order to maintain some semblance of stealth, Rick keeps himself off the path, cutting a path through the brush along the side of the road.

What he gains in stealth, however, is made up for in effort and discomfort. His feet catch on the uneven ground, and tree branches swat at his face. Once, a snake slithers away from him and Rick has no choice but to keep moving forward at the best clip he can manage.

None of this even gets started on the fact that he’s carrying Billy. The Scot has been utterly pliant, a dead weight hanging heavily on Rick’s taxed shoulders. What starts out as discomfort quickly becomes a nagging and pervasive ache that threatens to topple him with every lurching step he makes.

He starts out in a run, but slows to a jog. He doesn’t know how long he’s been going, but soon a stumbling, dogged walk is the best he can manage. One foot in front of the other. He can’t give up.

He won’t.

He’s made his choices; he’s going to see this through. Billy can’t die. Teammate, friend, relative stranger -- Billy can’t die. Not on Rick’s watch. He may not be protecting state secrets, but this is his singular mission all the same.

And Rick doesn’t quit.

-o-

His knees feel weak; his thighs burn. The pain in his shoulders runs down his back now, and the ache is so deep that Rick just feels numb. Breathing is a trial, the rough puffs of air grating in his lungs as he sucks in desperate and never feels satisfied.

It’s like running head on with a train. It’s like a marathon he refuses to lose. This is who Rick is; this is why he should be in the CIA. He does what needs to be done.

Casey’s a human weapon. Michael’s a brilliant planner. Billy’s a smooth talker. 

Rick’s the kid who is too tenacious to walk away. They don’t think he belongs here, but he does.

God help him, he _does._

He’ll prove it to them. He wanted to do it in the field, but this is just as important.

This is more important.

The train keeps coming; the finish line isn’t any closer.

Then, Rick’s foot catches on the ground and the sound of gunfire splits the air.

-o-

Whether it’s the shock of the gunfire or his foot tripping over a wayward branch, Rick loses his balance and can’t get it back. With Billy’s weight throwing off his center of gravity, Rick pitches forward and goes down hard, and there’s nothing Rick can do about it. He manages to get one hand up, deflecting a direct face plant, but the impact is still jarring.

The forces pushes the air out of his lungs, and for a moment, everything goes uncomfortably dim. He doesn’t lose consciousness, but he’s not sure how long it takes him before he gets his eyes to open.

At first, there’s not much to see. His face is smashed against the ground, and he has a good few of an ant hill. When a trail of the insects starts toward him, he startles, jerking upward just to realize that Billy’s half on top of him, crushing him.

He groans, shifting, trying both to roll himself into a better position and keep Billy somewhat stable. He’s almost managed to scoot out from under the other man when fresh gunfire erupts again, causing Rick to duck his head and bury his face back into the ground.

Eyes squeezed shut, he tries to remember to breathe. Curling up in a ball is nothing short of giving up, and Rick doesn’t quit.

Peeking his eyes open, he sees Billy, sprawled on his side, face blank and unknowing. He’s helpless.

Rick’s not.

He’s outmanned and outgunned and completely unprepared for a confrontation, but he’s not helpless.

Setting his jaw, Rick pulls his gun, waiting for a lull in the gunfire to bop up and fire off a few rounds. He doesn’t get many shots off before he sees movement across the way, and he counts four to five men before he dives for cover once more.

On the ground, this time he listens to the cadence of the gunfire. Four to five sounds about right. He glances up where the bullets are hitting the trees. The shooting is all from the same direction, too, which means there’s probably only one contingent.

For now, anyway.

Those aren’t great odds, but maybe it’s doable. Rick doesn’t know for sure; he’s never tested his limitations in this way. It is only his second mission after all, and he’d spent most of his time drugged and imprisoned on the first one.

So now is his time to shine.

Or die.

Either way.

With that thought prompting him, Rick jumps up, firing again before scrambling around, retreating back toward the trees. There’s no man made shelter, but the thick forest is at least good for this much.

Getting there, however--

Rick falls flat on his stomach when the gunfire starts again, and he army crawls a few feet before turning around. He lifts himself just enough to roll Billy on his back. The Scot flops lifelessly, and Rick doesn’t have time to make sure he’s still breathing as he wraps an arm around the other man and starts to drag him back.

It’s not a glamorous effort, and the entire process is tedious. Rick’s heart is pounding as bark sprays down on him. By the time he yanks Billy into the thickened brush at the treeline, his chest is tight with exertion. He doesn’t have time to arrange Billy more comfortable before he pulls his gun and starts firing.

He empties his clip blindly, and pulls back against a thick tree trunk while he fumbles to reload. The barrage of gunfire is disconcerting background noise, and he tries not to notice how badly his fingers are shaking.

When he’s done, he stops and breathes. He has limited ammunition; he has limited time. If he drags this thing out, more bad guys might arrive. Rick is already outnumbered; he’s pretty sure he can’t fend off any more.

He glances at Billy.

And Billy needs to get out of here.

Rick takes another breath and closes his eyes. He can stare down a train; he can finish the race. Hell, he can go head to head with a damn elephant.

He can do this.

Rick opens his eyes and moves.

-o-

It’s just like training.

He lifts himself, holding his gun steady, and narrows his eyes, aiming clearly for central mass. He fires -- one, two -- and a man goes down. He shifts his aim -- three, four, five -- another goes down.

A third man appears, and Rick pulls back, pressing himself against the tree with his eyes wide as he pants.

Two down.

He just took two men down.

It’s a horrifying rush, because this isn’t quite the thrill of a mission. He might have killed two men. It’s self defense; it’s a good cause; it’s part of his duty--

But two men.

Rick thinks of his own mother, back in the States. He thinks of her holding her rosary, saying extra prayers to bring him home safe and sound.

These men have mothers. They have fathers. They could have brothers and sister. They could have wives. They could have children. They might be defending their families, fighting for a cause that they believe in. Maybe they go to church; maybe they give to the poor. 

Or maybe they’re terrible people. It’s hard to say. Rick will never know. All he knows for sure is that they’re human.

They’re also probably dead.

If dying is a part of the job Rick’s accepted, he’s always known that killing might go hand in hand with it. He doesn’t want to kill people, but he also doesn’t want to die. He knows that sometimes, in this line of work, things have to be done for the greater good.

His eyes lock on Billy again.

It occurs to him that he doesn’t know if Billy’s even worth it. He believes the ODS has good intentions; he knows they do good work. But they’re bastards; they’re liars. They can’t be trusted, and they haven’t even been _nice_ to Rick. 

Still, Billy said it best. Rick has the heart of a hero. But Billy had been wrong. He doesn’t need cunning. He doesn’t need to sniff out deception.

He just has to make this shot.

Rick’s scared. He’s downright terrified. But Rick doesn’t quit.

If he loses, it’s not for a lack of determination and effort.

He feels the lull in the gunfire and springs into action, focusing his gaze. One, two, three -- a man goes down. Four, five, six -- nothing lands. 

Cursing, Rick pulls back just in time as bark sprays in his face.

Mentally, he tries to calm himself. Three men are down. That’s only two or three left. That’s not so bad.

Unwavering, Rick pulls out again, and he gets lucky with the first shot. The second sends one of the men scrambling, and there’s a brief period of silence. Without a target to shoot at, Rick stands stupidly for a second before he realizes what happened.

Before he realizes that he may be the last man standing.

He dares to hope. The tentative jubilation is intoxicating. Maybe he’s done it.

Maybe he’s stared down a trained; maybe he’s won the race. Maybe he still has a chance to fix this.

But when machine gun fire makes a tree trunk explode two feet from his head, the force sends him sprawling and he hits the ground, curling tight as the foliage seems to fly and spin, the staccato gunfire almost deafening him as he holds his breath and waits for a killing blow.

Maybe not.

-o-

Even when the gunfire stops, Rick can still feel it, reverberating deep inside him. His heart is almost pounding out of his chest, and each breath squeezed through his constricted lungs feels more tenuous than the last. His head is light; his awareness is splintered.

He’s not dead.

The relief leaves him giddy for a moment, before his eyes settle on Billy and he realizes, with stunning clarity, that the decisions he makes in the next few seconds could very well be the difference between life and death.

He blinks, weighing his options. He could return fire, but he’s firing blind now. He doesn’t have a visual on this new group or even how many there may be. The chances that he’ll guess right and take out enough of them to make a difference are slim.

He could surrender. It’s a bold option, but Rick’s opted for unconventional before. Outing them in Africa had saved Michael’s hand, and he has to think that surrender will at least gain them some time. 

It also might make them hostages.

Or get them killed.

Which leaves his last option: retreat.

It’s not exactly Rick’s favorite option -- he doesn’t like to quit.

But then, he also never played chicken to actually get hit by a train. The trick is knowing when to jump.

The answer is now.

Rick blinks again and springs into action. He crawls forward, snagging Billy and hoisting him with one arm as he scuttles deeper into the trees. The gunfire starts up again, mowing through the brush they just vacated, and Rick moves until the ground changes its pitch and starts down. It’s not a big gully, but it’s enough for now. With one final heave, he pulls Billy over the edge and they both tumble down.

When they stop, Rick curls protectively around Billy and waits to the thundering sound of bullets above their heads.

-o-

Rick’s not dead.

That’s his first assessment, and probably the most reassuring one. Despite the fact that he’s been fired on repeatedly, he is completely alive and remarkably unharmed.

Propping himself up a little in the relative safety of his gulley, Rick looks at Billy next. The Scotsman is blinking, wide-eyed and confused. But he’s still alive, too. And that counts for something.

That’s sort of where the good news stops, though. The frantic retreat into the gulley saved their lives, but it’s cost them more than a little. Not only is their option for escape severely limited now, but Rick’s lost his pack. The bandages and extra ammunition are out there, but with conditions being what they are, Rick knows he has no way of getting them.

Which means, he’s got one gun and a few extra clips in his pockets. It’s not enough to get them out of here, and it’s probably not enough to fend off whoever is out there for much longer. Plus, he no longer has any visibility. He has no way of assessing where the combatants are, which makes further retreat impossible.

Essentially, Rick has blocked himself into a corner.

The realization is crushing.

Swallowing, he blinks rapidly, trying his best to come to terms with the implications. He’s not going to get Billy out of here. He’s not going to get himself out of here.

This is it.  
 _  
This is it.  
_  
Tears burn at his eyes, and for a second, he thinks he may sob. There’s no one here to see it, but Rick knows that’s not the point.

The point is, this is still his mission. He’s still in charge.

And Rick doesn’t quit.

If a train is going to hit him, he’ll still be standing, face forward when it happens.

Resolved, he gets his ammunition in order and goes back to Billy. Carefully, he lifts the other man, moving them both until Rick’s back is against the far slope of the gulley and he has one arm across Billy’s chest protectively.

Under his touch, Billy murmurs, his head lolling against Rick’s shoulder as he lapses in and out of consciousness. 

“It’s okay,” Rick says quietly. “It’s going to be okay.”

Billy lifts his eyes slightly, trying to focus. “The mission?” he slurs.

Rick grinds his teeth together for a moment before nodding. “Under control.”

Billy’s gaze grows distant, and he smiles faintly. “Always knew,” he continues. “Heart of a hero.”

The compliment is so unexpected that it leaves Rick speechless.

It leaves him gutted.

He’s been working so hard for someone to believe in him, to prove himself, and the only time he gets the affirmation he wants, he doesn’t deserve it.

Billy is dying because of him, and there’s no way out because of him. This is Rick’s fault. He’s no hero. He’s just some stupid kid in over his head, too stupid to know when to ask for help. It’s bad enough that it’s going to cost him his own life. That it’ll cost Billy his...

He takes a ragged breath, bringing Billy closer. The other man has slipped away again, and Rick nods. “I’ll see this through,” he promises, both to Billy and to the rest of the ODS. He promises it to Higgins and his mother and everyone else. He promises it to himself.

Then he primes his gun, leveling it at the top of the gulley. If someone approaches, he’ll have a clean shot to take them out. He can’t hold off everyone, but he can defend this position for a while.

He looks at Billy guiltily, feeling the heat of fever still burning through him.

He’ll see this through. Until he’s out of bullets; until he’s out of options; until he’s out of time.

Until he’s out of everything.

-o-

Making a last sound seems like a good idea, but the truth is, it’s sort of nerve-wracking. They’re in a rainforest, after all. There are a thousand little noises, and every time the brush rustles, Rick has to resist the urge to start firing. Not only would it give away his position prematurely, but it would waste bullets he can’t afford to be without.

It’s all less than ideal.

In fact, it’s surreal. He thinks about his brothers back home. He wonders what they’re doing. They’d always made fun of him growing, for being the diligent one.

He’s not sure if the joke’s on them or him at this point.

His finger itches on the trigger, the sweat slicking his hands not making his grip any surer. A rivulet runs into his eye, and he twitches, gritting his teeth together so hard that he can hear it in his head.

It’s just a matter of time.

Then, there’s a different sound, a branch breaking and something scatters. The sound is gone as fast as its there, and it’s too deliberate to be anything but human.

Rick’s breath catches, and he finds himself drawing Billy’s slumped form even closer. He tightens his grip, narrows his sights, and reminds himself that this is his job.

This is why he’s here.

To serve his country, to do his duty.

No matter what.

In the silence that follows, Rick almost breaks. The adrenaline is too much; the intensity is overwhelming. He’s going to die here; he’s going to die and Billy’s going to die and it doesn’t matter if Rick shoots first or second or at all.

He’s scared. No, he’s terrified. This is the job that he signed up for, but he didn’t even know what that meant. It seems like years since he graduated from the Farm. It seems like another _life._

And here he is. Guarding a wounded teammate in a gulley, surrounded by hostiles. There’s no intel involved. Just a lot of bad choices, and Rick’s pointing a gun at the air like he can fix that.

Then, before Rick can blink, there’s movement and a head appears.

This time, in the face of an oncoming train, Rick freezes and puts up no defense in the face of inevitable death.


	5. Chapter 5

PART FIVE

Expecting to be mowed over by gunfire, Rick’s a bit surprised that he’s still alive.

More than that, he’s surprised that it’s not an angry Cambodian.

Instead, poking up at the edge of the gully is Casey.

The human weapon is scowling, and he deftly slides over the lip, slithering over toward Rick with a look of general disdain. “If you’re going to point your weapon, you need to be willing to use it,” he snaps.

Rick’s brow creases. “You’re complaining because I _didn’t_ kill you?”

“No,” Michael’s voice comes as he appears in the gully behind Casey. “He’s complaining that you apparently lack the common sense to defend yourself first.”

“Well, then why are you two sneaking up on me?” Rick demands, all too aware how stupid his own argument is.

“You’re green,” Michael says. “The green ones never shoot first.”

“You don’t know that for sure,” Rick says indignantly.

“We’re still alive, aren’t we?” Casey points out.

The answer is infuriating -- smug, condescending, and worse, Rick has no way to disprove it. His frustration is cut short, however, when Michael shifts on his knees to get next to Billy, who is still half-sprawled on top of Rick.

Michael’s movements become surprisingly gentle, his hand almost fatherly as he presses it across Billy’s glistening brow. Under his touch, Billy stirs, face turning toward Michael. Even so, he doesn’t wake, and when Michael smooths his hand down Billy’s cheek, the Scotsman seems to ease back into a deeper sleep.

“How bad?” Michael asks, not taking his eyes off of Billy.

“Infection’s spreading,” Rick says, and there’s no way to soften it. “It’s starting to abscess; he’s septic.”

Michael takes the news grimly. “We ditched our car about a mile up the road when we saw signs of fighting,” he says. He looks to Casey. “You think you can get us out?”

Casey snorts. “I’m not even going to humor such a question.”

Michael nods. “Good,” he says. “I’ll carry Billy. Martinez, I’m going to need you on point this time.”

That’s actually good news. But Rick’s still struggling to make sense of this uncanny turn of events. He’d been preparing himself to die, alone and tragically, and now Michael and Casey were here.

His team.

Michael is staring at him. “You okay, Martinez?”

Rick makes a face. “What are you guys doing here?”

Michael makes a face back. “Where else would we be?”

“I don’t know,” Rick says. “The _mission._ ”

“The mission changed,” Michael tells him. He shrugs. “Again.”

“But,” Rick starts but finds himself unable to come up with the words. “How...”

“There’s one road,” Casey informs him. “It’s not hard.”

Rick’s mouth falls open. “But the mission--”

Michael rolls his eyes, grabbing Billy by the wrist and guiding the limp form up and over his shoulder. “Is to follow orders,” he supplies, fixing his eyes on Rick’s. “So shut up, grab your gun, and take point.”

“But--”

Michael uses his free hand to shove Rick forward. “ _Now._ ”

-o-

Rick’s wanted to take point. Hell, he’s dreamed about it ever since he got accepted to the CIA training program. He always envisioned the thrill of responsibility, the vigor of knowing it was up to him.

This isn’t like that. 

As he cuts a path through the rainforest, he’s dogged with doubt and almost nauseous with fear. Behind him, he can hear the sounds of a fight but when he hears gunfire, Michael just prods him ahead, and the intensity in his eyes as he carries Billy leaves no room for argument.

So Rick runs.

It’s graceless, and he stumbles, almost losing grip on his gun. His heart is like a jackhammer, and he’s pushed on by the overwhelming reality that if he screws this up, there may be no other chances.

Not that he hasn’t screwed this up. He’s the one who passed on checking Billy’s wound; he’s the one who sulked instead of taking responsibility. He’s the one who struck out on his own and crashed the car. He’s the one.

If Michael and Casey hadn’t shown up...

He doesn’t even know why they’re here. He doesn’t know the status of the mission.

Rick doesn’t know anything.

Except to keep running.

-o-

Rick is so deeply set in survival mode, that he doesn’t see the car until Michael yells at him. Even then, Michael has to yell more than once, and when Rick finally turns around, he realizes he’s a good twenty yards ahead from where Michael is standing with Billy draped over his shoulders, jerking his head toward the road.

“What?” Rick asks, thinking belatedly to bring his gun up to bear.

“The car,” Michael says, emphatically now. “Unless you’d like to keep running in the opposite direction.”

That’s when Rick remembers that all this work is for something. He’s not one for idleness, but in the throes of tension, he’s been so focused on moving that he’s forgotten the endgame.

That they’re trying to get out of here.

Spurred back into action, Rick doubles back. Michael is already moving, but with Billy’s weight slowing him down, Rick overtakes him easily. He pushes through the rest of the brush and there it is.

The car.

It’s parked just off the road, not exactly hidden but still entirely intact. Rick doesn’t know where they got it, but at this point, he knows it probably doesn’t matter.

Rick’s never loved a piece of machinery more.

-o-

Rick is still standing there in awe when Michael huffs past him. “Give me a hand here?”

“Oh,” Rick says, and remembers to move, scaling the rest of the distance and opening the back door. 

Michael is breathing heavily, and he audibly exhales as he maneuvers Billy back down, and Rick finds himself reaching out to steady the Scotsman’s pliant body as Michael climbs in after him, moving around to pull him farther inside.

When Billy’s legs are tucked safely inside, Michael nods to the driver’s seat. “You’re driving.”

Rick thinks he must have misheard, but when Michael pulls a set of keys from his pocket, Rick finds himself fumbling to catch them.

“I hope you drive better than you catch,” Michael says with a note of derision.

“I, um,” Rick begins. “Really?”

“Well, you did crash the last car,” Michael points out.

“That’s not what I mean,” Rick says. “You want me to drive?”

“I want someone to drive,” Michael says tightly. He nods toward Billy. “And I’ve sort of got my hands full right now.”

“I just...”

“Look,” Michael cuts him off, sounding more than a little terse. “You know how you crashed Jonah’s car? Which he’s going to be pissed about, by the way.”

Rick frowns. “Yeah...”

“I’m going to assume you learned from experience that time around, and that you won’t do it again,” he continues. “We are sort of out of backup plans here.”

Rick swallows, then grips the keys tighter, opening the front door. “Okay,” he says, sliding the keys into the ignition. “Let’s go.”

-o-

At the wheel, Rick has a moment of satisfaction. He’s been on point; he’s at the wheel. Despite his missteps, he’s made it this far -- and he’ll make it the rest of the way.

The buoyancy of the hope is exhilarating, and Rick feels his calm and competence return in force. He’s trained. He’s capable.

And then a figure blurs across the road and Rick slams on the brakes. The car lurches, and in the back, he hears Michael curse loudly. There’s nothing to be done for it, though, and Rick feels the brakes lock as they skid to a precarious halt.

Breathless, Rick looks up and recognizes the figure. It’s Casey, and he doesn’t look too pleased to be standing a mere foot away from the bumper of the car.

Rick can’t say he blames him.

-o-

“What are you doing?” Rick yells as Casey clambers in the seat.

“Getting your attention,” Casey replies. “You drive worse than Billy.”

“You ran in _front_ of the car,” Rick exclaims.

Casey closes the door. “That’s because you drive like a maniac.”

“You don’t _jump in front of cars,_ ” Rick insists.

“You don’t leave your teammates behind,” Casey points out. “Especially when they just saved your ass.”

“Is it taken care of?” Michael asks from the backseat.

“For now,” Casey says. “But we’ll want to make good time before reinforcements arrive.”

“Agreed,” Michael says. 

Rick realizes that they’re both looking at him.

Then he realizes that he’s not driving. “Oh,” he says, taking his foot off the brake. “For the record, I think that was reckless.”

“Oh, and charging out into the rainforest with no backup isn’t?” Casey asks.

“I didn’t have any other options,” Rick says, starting to pick up speed.

“Exactly,” Casey says. “Now you’re starting to understand.”

-o-

The ODS is annoying and frustrating. They’re liars and they’re really nothing more than scoundrels. Bastards was the term Billy had used, and Rick has found no words that better capture it.

He’s really pretty glad they’re here now, though. Sure, Rick’s at the wheel, but he’s under no delusions as to who’s in charge of this mission anymore. At this point, Rick’s nothing more than a glorified chauffeur, following the lines of the road with all the speed he dares while Michael and Casey handle the things that matter.

Casey is turned in his seat, and Michael has shifted to the floor space. In the rearview mirror, Rick can see him rip Billy’s shirt in half, and even if he can’t quite see the wound from his position, he can see the set of Michael’s jaw.

“How bad?” Casey asks.

“Bad,” Michael replies. “How long has his fever been this high?”

“Long enough,” Rick says, because he’s losing track of time. “He hasn’t really been conscious since we left Jonah’s.”

“He’s septic?” Casey asks.

“And then some,” Michael confirms. He turns his head, looking at the wound more closely. “He never stood a chance.”

“I never thought Jonah would stitch it,” Rick says, but the defense sounds feeble.

“That’s why if you want something done right,” Casey mutters.

Rick flushes.

Michael sighs. “No sense in dwelling on it now,” he says. “We need to get to the hospital, though. Fast.”

“Working on it,” Rick says. “Are you sure we’re clear?”

“Of course we’re not sure,” Casey snaps. “Which is another reason to drive faster.”

Rick doesn’t need to be told again. His foot is already pressing down harder, and he forces his eyes back on the road. The ODS is counting on him. Rick’s already let them down once -- in the worst possible way. He doesn’t want to do it again.

Because the ODS is annoying and frustrating. They’re liars and they’re really nothing more than scoundrels. _Bastards_ was the term Billy had used, and Rick has found no words that better capture it.

But they’re the good guys.

More than that, they’re good.

He steals a glance at Billy -- and hopes they’re good enough.

But this time, Rick’s not going to be the chink in the armor. Not if he can help it.

With his focus back on the road, Rick drives on.

-o-

It’s almost impressive. Rick’s never driven these roads before, but he navigates them expertly, easily getting them into town and making his way to the closest hospital. It’s his sense of direction and his finely tuned attention to detail. This time, Rick performed under pressure -- and his team was there to see it.

But when he puts the car in park, when he climbs out, he sees Casey blur past him toward the entrance. A medical team is back in no time flat, and Rick finds himself the odd man out while Casey opens the car door and Michael backs out, hauling Billy with him.

The medical team lays him on a gurney, and Billy doesn’t so much as twitch while they wheel him inside, Michael still resolutely by his side and Casey leading the way.

Rick’s left, standing alone. Sure, Rick’s feats mean something, but they aren’t the things that matter most. Rick drove to the hospital, but Billy’s still sick. Billy might still be dying.

It’s not so impressive anymore. 

-o-

When Rick goes inside, he’s only a few seconds behind his teammates, but it might as well be a lifetime. He finds Michael at the front desk, speaking in a broken dialect while Casey fumes.

Sensing that it’s not going well, Rick makes his way up, glancing at the receptionist, who looks almost as miserable as Casey.

Taking pity on all of them, Rick interjects. “What seems to be the problem here?” he asks, using the local tongue. “Can I help?”

The woman looks so relieved that she might cry. Casey and Michael exchange weary glances, but Michael nods at him. “Remember who we are,” Michael says.

Rick nods. Michael’s talking about their covers, but it’s more than that. Rick remembers that he’s CIA; that they are the ODS.

Rick tells himself that means something.

After all this, he hopes it does.

“Okay,” he says, smiling at the woman again. “Maybe we can help each other.”

-o-

Rick feels good about negotiating Billy’s check-in. It’s not exactly easy, and Michael has to call one of Langley’s cover lines to verify their insurance, but somehow they end up in a waiting room with a stack of forms and a promise that a doctor will be out to talk to them soon.

Sitting in the waiting room, watching Michael sort through the forms, Rick feels less good. It occurs to him that now that they’ve done everything they can do for Billy, it doesn’t seem like enough. Billy’s in an examination room, fighting for his life, and Rick is in the waiting room.

It just feels useless. Worse than that, it feels awkward. There seems to be a quiet understanding between Casey and Michael. They don’t look at each other; they don’t interact. Casey paces and Michael fills out the forms, and Rick just sits there, looking from one to the other in total uncertainty.

He’s also struck by the growing realization that this isn’t how it’s supposed to go. Not just that Billy’s not supposed to be sick (not supposed to be possibly dying) but that Michael and Casey left him behind. They left him to do this on his own -- and then came right back at the first sign of trouble.

Granted, it’s his fault, but he could have fixed this. He has to think he could have.

He’ll never know now. And either way, the fact that they came to bail him out hurts his pride more than he wants it to. The fact that he may have needed the help...

Is humiliating.

He feels guilty, then. This isn’t about him. This is about Billy, sick with sepsis.

But it’s more than that. It’s about a team that doesn’t work when people aren’t an equal ground. If Michael hadn’t left them behind in the first place...

Rick’s indignant.

He’s scared and he’s frustrated and he’s confused and it’s just too much.

They have to talk about this.

Billy’s half dead, and they _have to talk about this._

Apparently, he’s the only one who thinks so. For a while, he stares at them. He watches Casey mutter under his breath; he watches as Michael fills out the form. He’s waiting for them to broach the topic first.

They don’t.

Rick’s frustration builds. He’s tired and he’s hungry and damn it, if they’re not going to say something, he _is._ “I didn’t think you’d come,” he blurts.

It’s not exactly what he wants to say; it’s really not even want he needs to say. It’s still the only thing that comes out.

Casey gives him a wayward glance but doesn’t stop. Michael looks up at him, expression bland. “Are you upset about that?”

The answer should be simple, but Rick realizes it’s not. He is upset, and yet he isn’t. If they hadn’t shown up, Rick’s not sure what would have happened. But there’s something in the fact that they swooped in at the last moment that rubs him the wrong way.

He works his jaw. “You think it’s really that simple?”

“We came in; we saved your ass,” Casey breaks in. “Next time, would you prefer a slow and painful death?”

Rick pales a little, but doesn’t back down. “That’s not the point.”

Michael’s eyebrows go up. “It’s not.”

Rick finds hims cheeks turning red. “No, it’s not,” he says. 

“Your situation wasn’t very good,” Michael reminds him.

“He was going to get his head blown off,” Casey says.

“Yeah, but none of your are talking about what this is really about,” Rick says.

Casey stops to stare at him, and Michael looks downright expectant.

“There’s a damn elephant in the room,” Rick almost explodes. “And none of you see it?”

Casey makes a face. “Always with the elephants.”

Rick sighs in total exasperation. “You don’t trust me.”

There’s no sign of response from his teammates’ impassive faces.

“You didn’t trust me to come on the mission,” Rick starts because he can’t stop now. “And you didn’t trust me to get Billy out.”

“You’re taking this too personally,” Casey says. “We knew you were going to have to move Billy; coming back was the only feasible option.”

“Why?” Rick asks. “Why was it the only option? Because I’m the new guy? Because I’m going to screw up?”

“Because you’re one operative, taking a wounded man through enemy territory,” Michael tells him flatly. “This isn’t about trust. This is about being realistic.”

“And the mission?” Rick asks. “You guys didn’t even consider me.”

“We trusted you with Billy’s life,” Michael says. “We trusted you with one of our own. We don’t take that lightly.”

“Yeah,” Casey says, a little bitterly. “And look how well you did with that.”

The blood drains from Rick’s face. It’s not that he hasn’t thought it -- it’s not that he hasn’t blamed himself more than a little -- but hearing it hurts. He still remembers what they said: trust can be earned.

Of course, then they drugged him and ditched him, so Rick’s not entirely sure if they meant it or not.

Now, he’s less sure.

He’s not sure of anything. “I’m just trying to do my job,” he says finally. “And you guys won’t let me.”

Casey’s eyes divert, but Michael holds his gaze. “That’s why we’re all here, kid,” Michael says.

“Exactly,” Rick agrees. “So I shouldn’t be sitting in Jonah’s house while you guys do the mission.”

“Numb nuts,” Casey interjects. “He means, that’s why we’re _here._ ”

Rick tilts his head.

Michael smiles tiredly. “You want to talk about the elephant in the room? Think about this,” he says. “Maybe our choice to come back isn’t about our trust; maybe it’s about our priorities.”

Rick frowns.

“As in, maybe it’s not whether we trust you,” Michael continues.

“Which I think the jury is still out on,” Casey adds.

“Maybe it’s that sometimes we can’t get everything in our line of work,” Michael says. “So we pick what’s most important.”

It’s not the answer Rick expects. In fact, it’s an answer that leaves Rick dumbfounded. Because he’s been so busy being scared and indignant and guilty and angry that he hasn’t considered that maybe he hasn’t gotten everything right. Maybe his misjudged his teammates, even more than they’ve misjudged him. Maybe Rick wants the trust he hasn’t earned -- and maybe that’s just as much Rick’s problem as it is theirs.

Maybe.

Rick doesn’t know, and he doesn’t know how to find out. The emotions of the last few days are catching up with him, and he feels overwhelmed. He almost died; Billy may be dying; the mission--

He startles when Michael gets abruptly to his feet, and Casey’s not even a step behind him. Rick is pathetically still getting his head screwed on straight when Michael’s already face to face with the doctor.

“Ask him,” Michael says to Rick. “Ask how he is.”

Rick wets his lips, working to get his mind in order to translate. But when he looks at the doctor’s face, his heart stutters and his stomach clenches. He can ask how Billy is, but he’s pretty sure he already knows the answer.

-o-

Rick translates the words, each one sounded more wooden and foreign than the last. Some of the medical jargon is hard to precisely translate -- Rick’s can speak passably in the dialect, but he’s no expert -- but the gist is still intact.

And it’s not good.

The wound is badly infected, and while the staff has cleaned it and started Billy on a full round of antibiotics, the widespread nature of the infection is putting them at a disadvantage. Billy’s fever is high, and there are some signs that his organs may threaten to shut down unless things improve quickly. To point, they’re fighting an uphill battle, and the doctor laboriously points out that he can’t be held responsible if the treatments don’t work.

When the doctor is done, Rick doesn’t know what to say. He’s the default medium between his team and the medical staff, but the grim prognosis leaves him shellshocked. Not that he hadn’t known it was bad, but he’d pinned all his hope on getting here soon enough.

It may not be enough.

Rick may have killed Billy yet. And to think, he had the audacity to ask for trust.

To think he was even worried about it when Billy is still fighting for his life.

His throat is too thick to speak, his guilt too heavy to work around.

Casey is standing with his fists clenched, but Michael nods, looking at the doctor. “Can we see him now?”

-o-

This is only Rick’s second mission, so he tells himself that it’s entirely normal to feel like he’s out of his element. Mostly because he doesn’t know his element. He doesn’t know his team. This is all new to him, no matter how eager, smart and capable he may be.

Still, just when he thinks he has something figured out, he realizes that he’s wrong.

Very wrong.

There is no discussion about who will visit Billy first. Michael follows the doctor and when Rick goes to follow, Michael gives him one look that’s clear enough. Rick stops short for the lack of something better to do, and when Michael and the doctor disappear down the hall, Rick feels oddly forlorn.

“That’s it?” he asks, looking over to Casey.

The self-professed human weapon doesn’t look thrilled by this turn of events, but he doesn’t look surprised either. Come to think of it, Casey’s never looked thrilled. “Billy needs rest,” he says. “If we go in as a team, it’ll hardly be a restful environment.”

Rick’s gaze lingers down the hall. “But what are we supposed to do?”

“Wait,” Casey tells him simply. “It’s not my favorite answer, but sometimes the best course of action is inaction.”

There’s truth to that, and probably a lot of wisdom. Still, Rick’s stomach churns uneasily. He glances at Casey. “Does this happen a lot?”

Casey looks unamused. “Do we get stabbed and improperly treated before taking ill-advised trips through the jungle without backup?” he asks. “No, this is the first.”

Rick sighs. “I mean, injuries,” he says. “I mean, what you do...”

“Is dangerous,” Casey tells him tersely. “Which is why we work hard to make sure we’re better than everyone else.”

Which is why the rookie stays behind; which is why the mission changes when someone’s in peril. His team is difficult and confusing, but one thing is obvious: they care about each other.

And Rick let Billy get sick on his watch.

He sighs. “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t mistakes my coldness for a front,” Casey tells him. “You don’t owe me an apology.”

“Still,” Rick says. “I know this can’t be easy--”

Casey narrows his eyes dangerously. “You don’t know anything about this,” he says. “You’re apologizing to make yourself feel better. I don’t believe in making amends; I believe in doing better. I believe in proving myself. The rest is sentimentality.”

To that, Rick has no reply. He’s right about everything, but mostly this: the rest is sentimentality. Which is why it’s so damn hard.

-o-

When Michael comes back, he’s stoic. His face is pinched, and he doesn’t say much but with a silent nod, he and Casey seem to confirm something. Rick’s not sure what when he realizes that they’re staring at him.

Rick shuffles his feet. “Um, is there something--”

“It’s your turn,” Casey explains.

Tilting his head, Rick isn’t sure whether he should frown or smile. “I, um--”

“They’re only letting one person in at a time,” Michael says. “You helped get him this far....”

“And I think you have something to tell him,” Casey reminds him pointedly.

Rick feels flustered. “But, I mean. He’s your teammate--”

“He’s our teammate,” Michael corrects. “Unless you want to bail on us already?”

“Which, considering that this is partly your fault, would be pretty crappy of you,” Casey says.

This is all reassuring and disconcerting, and Rick finds himself standing stupidly.

“Thirty minutes,” Michael tells him. “Then meet us back here.”

There’s no room for argument, and Rick can’t think of a good reason to anyway. Shutting his mouth, he starts down the hall.

-o-

Rick has never shied away from any task assigned to him. Even the difficult, even the monotonous, even the terrifying -- Rick does what he has to do. That’s just who he is.

But standing at the edge of Billy’s hospital bed, he’s struck by how this is so much harder than the rest. 

Because Rick’s not a spy here. He’s not sure what he is except useless.

The room is dim and warm, the machines creating a buzzing noise that is punctuated by beeps and whooshes. The medical equipment is only vaguely familiar to Rick, and he knows it’s all there to help Billy, but it’s still daunting to look at it. 

None of that is Billy, though, and Rick thinks that’s the hardest part. On the bed, Billy looks small somehow, lost amid the machines and the equipment that are saving his life. It’s not just Billy’s struggle anymore -- he doesn’t have enough to fight on his own. Billy needs the IVs and the monitors, because he is running out of things to fight with.

In short, he’s losing the battle for his life.

That’s a sobering thought, especially since this is Billy. In the short time Rick’s known the other man, stillness and silence haven’t really been part of the picture. From the first day, Billy’s been larger than life. He’s the only one who’s cracked a smile or acted like he wanted Rick there at all. Granted, he’s also lied to Rick, but Billy’s larger than life personality had at least given Rick a place to start.

There’s none of that here now. Not with Billy’s fever so high; not with the infection so deep.

And it’s Rick’s fault.

He joined the CIA to save lives, but standing there, Rick is struck by the terrifying realization that he may have just cost someone theirs. He may have cost Billy his.

He can be angry that he was left behind; he can be frustrated that his team came back for him. None of it changes the fact that Rick made choices that led to this. This is Rick’s failure.

This is Rick’s responsibility.

Suddenly his chest is tight and his eyes burn. “I’m sorry,” he says, his voice almost faltering in the unnatural stillness. He searches Billy’s face, but there’s no sign of life. “I...thought I could do it. I never meant...”

He never meant anything like this. He’d wanted to do the right thing, but Billy had been right. The heart of a hero wasn’t enough. But it wasn’t just cunning that Rick needed.

It’s everything.

His team may have been full of paranoid bastards, but they’d saved Rick when it mattered. They’d come back for him, every one of them. They’d never let him down.

On his second mission, Rick can’t say the same.

“I’m so sorry,” he says again, wishing it were enough.

His team trusted him with this, and he’d let this happen. They’d been right to come back and maybe they’d been right not to take him in the first place. Trust can be earned -- but that means Rick does have to earn it. What has he done for that yet? Two missions in, and what does he have?

He has a dying teammate and it’s all his fault.

Somehow saying sorry doesn’t cut it.

Rick doesn’t know what does.

-o-

Rick is prompt about leaving Billy’s room, both because he’s a little afraid of what Michael and Casey will do to him if he’s late and because sitting next to Billy is hard. The doctors explained that unconsciousness is going to be a given until his fever breaks and that in truth, it’s the best thing for Billy at this point while his body struggles to fend off the worst.

Rick never realized how dour the CIA would seem without Billy. Sure, his jokes are stupid. Yes, his stories are inane. And he quite clearly lies about anything and everything. But the friendly banter is pleasantly distracting, which Rick realizes sitting in the gloomy silence, is maybe Billy’s point.

It’s easy to underestimate the ODS. They’re a strange group and they hardly look like a highly trained unit. But they all keep surprising him.

And Rick seems to keep doing exactly what they expect.

So at this point, punctuality he figures is at least a way to make amends.

When he arrives in the waiting room, his teammates look neither surprised nor disappointed. Michael’s expression is tired, and Casey glares at him once before brushing by him on his way up the hall.

Rick turns, watching him. “Is he--?”

“He was angry I let you have the second turn,” Michael informs him.

Rick looks back at Michael curiously.

Michael shrugs. “You haven’t been our only new guy,” he explains. “Casey’s been looking out for Billy since his Scottish ass arrived here six years ago.”

This seems funny to Rick, and he sits down, quizzical. “Really?”

“The deeper his scowl, the more he cares,” Michael says. “If he ever starts yelling, you can assume that he’s not so much angry as he is scared.”

Rick’s frown deepens. “Really?”

“Well, okay, and then he’s really angry that he’s scared,” Michael continues. “Either way, it’s not you, kid.”

Rick’s shoulders slump a little. “It is my fault, though,” he says. “All my talk about wanting the responsibility, and I fumbled it.”

Michael takes the admission stoically. Rick expects smugness, maybe even an I-told-you-so. But when Rick looks at Michael, he just looks old. “This is my team,” he says. “All outcomes rest on my shoulders. I’m sorry we had to leave you in that situation.”

“It would have been fine if I’d checked the wound myself,” Rick protests.

“Maybe,” Michael concedes. “But maybe not.” He sighs. “Mistakes happen. What we do -- it’s not about being perfect. It’s about doing the best you can at any given moment and hoping for the best.”

Not for the first time on this mission, Rick finds himself incredulous. “Hope? Billy says you’re a tactical genius, and that’s what it comes down to? _Hope?_ ”

Michael’s smile is wry but his eyes are sad. “It’s not my favorite part of the job, either, trust me,” he says. “But if you want to talk about the elephant in the room -- that’s it. That’s the thing that haunts us. We plan, we fight, we charm -- and it’s not always enough.”

It’s not said cruelly, but the words are still hard to hear. Rick’s stomach tightens, and he forces himself to swallow. “I still should have checked the wound.”

Michael nods. “Yeah,” he says. “Next time you will. We’re all still learning here.”

“You think there’ll be a next time?”

Michael lets out a slow, even breath. “I hope so,” he says with a nod. “I really hope so.”

-o-

Billy gets worse.

As the day wears on, Michael grows increasingly sullen. The lines on his face are deep and set, and he rarely leaves Billy’s room, no matter what the doctors try to say. Casey takes to pacing more forcefully and when he yells at a nurse for running into him after dinner, Rick knows things are bad.

At Billy’s bedside, he watches as the other man wheezes, his face flushed and skin hot. His kidneys are threatening to shut down. This may be the beginning of the end.

Rick hopes. When there’s nothing left, all that’s left is hope.

-o-

He falls asleep in the waiting room, slumped against the wall with his head propped up on his hand. He knows he’s dozing, but doesn’t have the energy to stop himself as the thickness of sleep fogs over his brain.

He’s in the jungle again, pushing and fighting his way through. He’s lost and he’s scared, and there’s leeches clinging to his face while he runs helplessly in circles.

When all hope seems lost, there’s a rumble and the ground shakes. He’s thrown to the ground and when he looks up, he sees the elephant looming above him. At first, he’s afraid but it stops short of him and shows no sign of moving. Instead, it trumpets and when it looks back down at him, Rick sees his team perched on its back.

Casey looks less than pleased to be riding on the back, while Michael guides the head. Billy waves cheerily from the side.

“Cheer up, son,” Billy croons. “Our greatest fears are sometimes our greatest assets!”

“Easy for you to say,” Casey mutters. “I think she had beans.”

“Look, that’s all well and good, but are we ready to go yet?” Michael asks. “We do have a mission to complete.”

Before Rick can answer, the elephant trumpets again and Rick startles awake.

He blinks a few times, swallowing. 

He’s awake.

He’s still in the waiting room.

Then he realizes there’s no elephant trumpeting -- no, it’s the sound of the PA system.

Signalling a code blue in Billy’s room.

-o-

Heart pounding, Rick runs. He moves through the halls like his life depends on it. The adrenaline is pumping again, and he feels like he’s in the car with a Russian operative, like he’s eating a scorpion in the desert, like he’s coming face to face with an elephant.

He’s not backing down.

At Billy’s door, he skids, grabbing the door frame to pull himself in. He’s breathless, throat almost too tight to let air through as he tries to see. At first, there’s just chaos -- a medical team shouting in a rapid, foreign gone, Casey with his fists clenched as he stands dangerously still in the corner, and Michael poised but motionless just beyond the furious action.

Rick stops, not sure what to do. He tries to see around the action, tries to catch a glimpse -- and makes out Billy’s lax form, his exposed chest before a doctor shifts, making an order. Numbly, Rick watches as a nurse turns an alarm off and the doctor steps away with a look of finality.

It’s over, Rick realizes, sudden horror swelling in him.  
 _  
It’s over.  
_  
-o-

At once, the weight of grief is crushing. The sense of loss, the reality of failure, flooded through him with an unexpected and unstoppable force. He felt like he’d been punched in the stomach, and he was vaguely aware of his own trembling as the blood drained from his head and he realized what had happened.

What he’d done.

Billy is dead.

He’d essentially killed Billy.

It’s his fault.

The doctor removes his gloves and looks up. But he’s...smiling?

That can’t be right. That doesn’t make sense.

Something isn’t right. Rick’s missing something, something big--

Michael turns to him, his mouth moving but Rick can’t hear the words. He blinks, watching as Casey’s face goes entirely white and the nurses move around the bed, giving him a view of Billy--

Michael’s hand grips his shoulder. “What’s he saying?” he demands.

But Rick doesn’t know; Rick can’t hear. Rick can’t make sense of it--

The doctor speaks again, eyes warm and light.

“Translation,” Michael says, seething a little now. “ _Now._ ”

Rick furrows his brow, looking at Billy. The Scot is still lifeless on the bed, and his face is pale. He looks horrible, but...

Casey rounds on him, hands firm on his shoulders as he shakes Rick, almost violently. “Tell us what he’s saying, or I swear to God, I will eviscerate you with my bare hands right here in this hospital room.”

Rick blinks, mouth hanging open. Stunned, he looks at the doctor, who is equally stunned. The man hesitates, as if not sure whether to continue, but when Rick does nothing, he says in fractured English, “He is okay.”

Casey’s fingers are crushing, and the grip doesn’t abate, not even as Michael steps forward with a glance back to Rick. “Ask him what happened.”

Numbly, Rick’s tongue forms the words.

The doctor seems encouraged and spouts of more quickly in his native language. Rick listens and tries to understand.

He looks at Billy.

“Well?” Casey asks, giving him another shake.

Rick barely remembers to breathe. “He’s okay,” he says, as if trying to believe it himself. He sees what he missed now -- the rhythm on the now-silent heart monitor, the even rise and fall of Billy’s chest, the pallid skin no longer burning with fever. “His fever broke.”

“Then what was all this?” Michael asks.

The doctor continues, as if he understands now.

Rick almost laughs. “Shock of recovery,” he says. “It happens sometimes with patients who are suffering from really high fevers. He was so close to organ failure that the sudden break in temperate sent his system into a shock. But he’s better now. It’ll take some time, but they think he’s going to be okay.”

-o-

The news is good, but the fight is long from over. Billy’s fever has broken, but it’s still high, and he’s still struggling to fend off the lingering infection. He’s not in immediate danger, but he needs continued rest and antibiotics to give his body the best chance possible.

It’s not a death watch anymore, though. Rick takes comfort in that.

In fact, Rick finds strength in that.

Michael and Casey seem just as relieved as he is, and after Casey lets Rick go, the tension seems to abate. When Rick says he’ll take the morning shift, they both agree and Rick finds himself at Billy’s bedside.

Which is where he belongs. His team trusts him; this is a responsibility he can handle.

Settled next to Billy’s bed, he just grins. “It’s under control now,” he promises. “So whenever you’re ready, we’ll be here waiting.”

His teammates are paranoid, lying bastards.

But Rick’s not.

Every word is true. He’ll make sure of that.

-o-

By the end of the day, Rick is tired and sore -- but gratefully so. It’s reassuring to see Billy sleep now -- his labored breathing has eased and the sweat doesn’t soak his hair anymore -- and after how close they’d come, Rick will take any reassurance he can get. Plus, there’s a sense of control. He understands now that he’s been left in charge, and he knows the importance of that. Billy needs someone there for him -- and Casey and Michael need someone to be their backup.

That’s Rick.

He’d thought that wasn’t good enough before, but if there’s one thing he’s learned from this mission, it’s that no matter what part he plays, he has to play it well. His team relies on him; they need him.

Except for the fact that Billy almost died, Rick thinks that makes for a pretty good outcome all together.

When lunch passes, Rick figures his teammates fell asleep and got something substantial to eat. When dinner approaches, he takes solace in the fact that they’re really letting him take the wheel this time. But as evening rounds pass and Michael and Casey don’t show up, Rick is starting to wonder.

It’s all still good news for Billy, though. His temperature is holding steady at a moderate degree. He’s still unconscious, for lack of a better word, but his vitals are rebounding. There’s a slight rattle in his lungs that could be the start of pneumonia, but the antibiotics seem to be doing their job and the doctors are still optimistic about the long term prognosis.

Michael and Casey will be relieved. Rick wants to tell them.

Except they’re not here.

There’s trust...

And then there’s instincts. 

Rick knows what his team has told him, but maybe Billy said it best -- they’re paranoid bastards, they say a lot of things they don’t mean.

Something’s wrong.

He’s about to get out his phone, when there’s a sound at the door. Rick looks up and sighs in relief.

“I was wondering about you two,” he says as Michael comes, Casey right behind him. “I know I said you guys could take some time off, but....”

He trails off. The feeling of relief abates, and the sense of unease returns. Something’s still not right. Michael and Casey are here, but they’ve hardly stepped in the room. They’ve changed clothes and showered, but they look fully geared up. Casey’s socks are rolled up over his pants.

Rick stops, cocking his head. “You’re...leaving?”

Michael’s lips settle into a firm line, and he nods. “We still have a mission.”

It’s the truth, but it’s not really the truth Rick was expecting. His mouth falls open. “But what about the team? What about the things that really matter?” he asks, feeling his indignation flare.

“We came back; we got Billy help,” Michael says. “Now we have to finish the job we came here for in the first place.”

“The CIA tends to frown upon spies going overseas and not doing the mission,” Casey says.

“Okay,” Rick says, nodding slowly as he tries to make sense of that. He glances toward Billy. “I can probably be ready to go in an hour. If you guys can sit with Billy, I’ll just...”

He trails off again. Michael is looking at him plainly and Casey almost looks amused.

Rick’s shoulders fall. “Oh, come on!” he says. “You’re leaving me behind again?”

“I thought we’d made it clear that’s not what this was about,” Michael says.

“You guys left me here all day so you could plan your way back, didn’t you?” Rick accuses. “That whole talk earlier -- that whole thing about trust -- that was a lie, wasn’t it?”

“It wasn’t a lie,” Michael says.

Casey makes a face. “At least not entirely.”

Rick glares. “See.”

“No, you see, Martinez,” Michael says. “We trusted you with Billy’s life once. That didn’t go so well but you haven’t heard one ounce of righteous indignation from us.”

Casey huffs. 

Michael rolls his eyes. “Okay, so maybe you’ve heard an ounce,” he concedes. “But it’s not without merit, and I think you know that. And yet, we trusted you again today.”

“Yeah, after you knew he was getting better,” Rick protests.

“That’s what we thought before,” Michael says.

“We tend to assume disaster is always looming,” Casey says. 

Rick shakes his head. “You _lied_ to me.”

“We were giving you a chance to prove yourself,” Michael says. “That’s what you want, isn’t it?”

It is, but Rick knows better than to admit it now.

“Because this is your chance,” Michael says. “Trust can be earned.”

“Trust has to be earned,” Casey clarifies.

“Earn it now,” Michael says. “Stay here with Billy; make sure he’s okay.”

It’s a damn good argument, and they know it. Rick feels his resolve wavering. “But the mission...”

“Just changed,” Michael says. Then he shrugs. “Again.”

Rick knows when he’s beat. “What if you need backup?”

Michael smirks. “What if _you_ need backup?”

Rick glowers.

Michael chuckles. “This is the easy part. In and out and we’re done.”

“Yeah,” Casey says. “Really, you’re the lucky one -- no leeches in this hospital.”

“But Billy,” he says, eyes going back to their recumbent fourth member.

“Is in your hands now,” Michael says. “Don’t screw it up.”

Casey narrows his gaze. “Or we’ll screw you up.”

“That’s really encouraging,” Rick says sarcastically. “Thanks.”

“Anytime,” Casey says.

Michael claps him on the shoulder. “That’s what teammates are for.”

-o-

There’s no further argument. Michael and Casey leaves as quickly as they come, and Rick finds himself alone in the hospital room once again.

The feeling of uselessness is all too familiar. The letdown of inaction is becoming a recurring theme. He feels betrayed and disheartened and annoyed that he ever believed that something had changed between them. The ODS lies and manipulates, and Rick wants to think he’s part of them, but he’s just another pawn to them.

He wants to earn their trust, but it’s increasingly clear to him that they have no interest in gaining his.

Now, here he is. Holding a vigil for a relative stranger, sitting idle while someone else does his actual job. When Billy wakes up, Rick’s going to have to be the one to explain what happened. He’s going to have to be the one to explain how they got here and why they’re alone again.

It’s not fair.

Rick wants to rail against that, but there’s no one to listen. There’s nothing to do.

Except sit -- and wait.

Because apparently that’s what teammates are for.

-o-

Rick would like to think he’s above sulking. Perhaps he’s brooding. Maybe he’s thinking critically about the mission status.

Or maybe he’s just pouting like a child, because that’s what it feels like.

That’s not all he does, of course. He talks to the doctors and nurses, and he sleeps on and off for most of the night. In the morning, Billy’s fever hasn’t changed, but all his other vitals are showing steady improvement so they take him off the critical list and arrange to move him to a less intensive ward.

This is good news.

But when dinner comes and Billy is settled into his new bed, Rick still finds himself sulking. Michael and Casey are probably back on site now; even Jonah is out there in the rainforest, just steps from the action. Billy is nurturing an injury procured in the line of duty.

And Rick is sitting stupidly reading magazines in a foreign language. This time, there’s not even a perimeter to check or an asset to talk to. It’s just Rick and a medical team and a sleeping man.

He thinks it shouldn’t be this way. After everything, it really shouldn’t be. His team trusts him, but they don’t, and Rick’s not sure what parts are lies and what parts are truth. Every time he thinks he has it figured out, the ODS does something inane and throws it all on his head. They’d put Billy first; then they’d put the mission first. And then they’d pulled whatever line best served their purpose and pulled Rick’s heartstrings until he did what they wanted with a flourish.

Fool me once, shame on you. Fool me twice...

Rick’s lost track of how many times they’ve fooled him.

Worse, what is he going to tell Billy when he wakes up? About his role in this? About where Michael and Casey are? About how they came back for him and left him all over again? There’s no conversation Rick can envision that isn’t awkward.

It makes Rick want to leave, honestly. He wants to go back to their hotel room, take a hot shower and _forget this._

But he can’t blow it off. Last time he took something lightly, Billy almost died. 

So Rick is going to stay. By himself. Awkward and useless. Angsty and frustrated.

Sulking all the while.

-o-

It’s almost night again, and Rick has managed to prop himself back in a chair, tipping just enough to recline his head when something moves.

Half asleep as he is, Rick’s training kicks in pretty quick and he startles back to awareness.

Which is enough to knock him unceremoniously from the chair. He hits the ground hair, the plastic chair clattering beside him. It’s a ruckus, and when he stands up, he’s thankful there was no one around to see that.

Except there is. There’s Billy, who is supposed to be unconscious and recovering but is awake and looking at him, a bit perplexed and completely exhausted. “Did you mean to do that?” he asks, and his voice is hardly more than a whisper.

Rick hastily picks up the chair. “No, I, um,” he stutters before abandoning that train of thought. “You’re awake!”

Billy’s eyelids flutter a few times, and it seems to be a struggle to stay awake. Somehow, he still smiles. “Just in time for your spectacular performance,” he says. Then he looks around, forehead furrowing. “Hospital?”

Rick moves closer, feeling like he should apologize. “Yeah, sorry,” he says. “You got pretty sick.”

Billy glances down the length of his body, grimacing a little. “It seems so,” he murmurs, eye flicking back toward Rick. “You got me here?”

Rick pauses, considering his answer. It occurs to him that he doesn’t know how aware Billy was at any point during the journey. When Rick loaded him up, he was pretty out of it. It’s entirely possible he doesn’t know what happened. “What do you remember?”

Billy’s eyebrows knit together. “Not much, I’m afraid,” he says. “Movement and pain.” He cocks his head. “Elephants?”

Rick can’t help but smile. “Well, at least you remember the good parts.”

Billy chuffs. “Then I’m not sure I want to know the bad,” he says, looking around again at the room. “How bad off am I, anyway?”

“Better now,” Rick says readily. “Your fever broke about a day ago. You’ve still got a nasty infection, but they seem to be ahead of it for now.”

Billy seems to process this. “A day ago?” he asks. “How long...?”

“Just a few days,” Rick tells him honestly. 

This answer makes Billy frown. “The mission?”

Of course Billy would ask that. He nearly died from an infection and he doesn’t care about his prognosis. He doesn’t care that he’s still at risk for pneumonia or that his kidneys very nearly shut down. He doesn’t care that he could still be looking at a good month of recovery time, assuming he doesn’t have any secondary infections.

All Billy cares about is the mission.

Rick sighs. “Still on,” he says. “The guys took a break to help me get you back, but they should be back at it now.”

This registers fresh concern on Billy’s face. “They came back?”

Hesitating, Rick nods. “Yeah, they came when I said I was taking you in,” he admits. “It’s a good thing, too. We ran into a bit of trouble on the way out.”

“Our friends from before?” Billy asks.

Rick nods.

Billy’s face goes white.

“We made it, though,” Rick assures him. “Jonah’s car, not so much, but we’re all fine.”

“For now,” Billy says. “They went back out into that jungle, though. After a second skirmish, tensions are going to be high.”

It’s a fact that Rick hasn’t quite considered, but now that Billy says it, it makes a lot of sense.

Billy gathers a breath, eye darting toward the door. “We need to get out there--”

“Whoa,” Rick says, putting a restraining hand on Billy’s shoulder. “You’re doing better, but you’re not out of the woods. They left me in charge of you, so what I say, goes.”

Billy gives him an imploring look. “It’s not just our friends,” he says. “The entire mission is much more high risk. With this kind of activity, everyone involve is going to suspect a trap. Michael and Casey could be compromised. We have to go--”

Billy tries to lift himself again, but this time, the pain stops him. He curls over with a gasp, and when he looks up, his eyes are wet and wide.

Cursing, Rick tries to brace the other man in order to keep him still. “I know I’m the new guy, but you need to listen to me,” he says. “You can’t leave. You need to stay in that bed, and if I have to strap you down to keep you here, I will.”

Billy’s breathing is labored as he meets Rick’s gaze again. “I have to stay,” he says with a slow nod. “You don’t.”

Rick’s heart skips a beat. “What?”

“I may be out of this fight, but you’re not,” he says. “You can go.”

Rick snorts. “They left me in charge of you.”

Billy makes a face. “You said it yourself, as long as I stay in bed, I’m fine.”

“Probably.”

“And if not, there’s an entire medical team here that is far more fit to take care of me than you are,” Billy tells him.

“But Michael--”

“The bastard is protecting you just as much as me,” he says. “He knows how dangerous reentry would be at this point and he already blames himself for my current state.”

It’s Rick’s turn to balk. “I’m the one who let it get infected.”

“And he’s the one who drugged me into oblivion,” Billy says. “You’re not thinking like a man with a God complex. If Michael can’t trust others, that means he can’t blame them either. He thinks the entire world revolves around him and his decisions. He blames himself for this mission, and he probably can’t face risking the new guy yet again.”

In all of Rick’s brooding, he hasn’t quite considered that. That Michael doesn’t blame him; that there’s a way to spin this that isn’t his fault. That it’s not that his team doesn’t trust him, but that they don’t trust themselves with him. “But...,” he tries, but no words come.

“But nothing,” Billy says. “The sentiment of it all is quite lovely -- staying with the injured teammate -- but you have to know when to call bullshit, lad. And right now, Michael Dorset is full of it.”

Rick doesn’t know what to say. “But they _trusted_ me to stay here.”

“Rubbish,” Billy says. “Trust isn’t doing exactly what is asked of you. Trust is doing what’s best for the team. Michael put our well being ahead of his own. Now that I’m well enough, you can return the favor.”

The words are like a rush of adrenaline, coursing through his body. Rick’s fingers start to tingle and he wets his lips. “But won’t it be dangerous?”

“Aye,” Billy says. “But I’ve seen you in action. As long as you steer clear of the elephants, there’s nothing that can’t stop you as long as you’re smart.”

“But I don’t even know what I’m doing,” Rick protests.

“You’re backup,” Billy says. “Move back toward the destination, look for signs of trouble. If all appears well, slow your pace and keep your distance.”

“And if all isn’t well?” Rick asks.

“Go in firing,” Billy advises.

For a moment, Rick’s not sure what to say. He’s not sure what to do. “You’re telling me to defy an order?”

“I’m telling you to go where you’re needed,” Billy tells him earnestly. “No one will fault you for that.”

Rick nods. “Okay,” he says. Then he gets to his feet, nodding again. “Okay.”

Billy smiles reassuringly. “Excellent,” he says. Then he pauses. “Just...be careful.”

“I thought you said I was a trained operative,” Rick says.

“And so am I,” Billy says. “That hardly makes us infallible. Use restraint. You can be a hero, but don’t be a martyr.”

“Okay,” Rick says. “I think I can do that.”

“You promise me,” Billy says. “You promise me that you’ll come back.”

Rick smiles. “Promise me that you’ll stay in that bed until I get back.”

Billy returns the smile. “Deal.”

“Deal,” Rick agrees. 

“Now go,” Billy says. “Before I regret this.”

“Okay,” Rick says, and he turns to leave before he regrets it either.


	6. Chapter 6

PART SIX

From his sickbed, Billy’s speech is inspirational. Rick feels the certainty of it girding him and he makes it to the parking lot before he realizes he may be in over his head.

He is mostly unarmed. He may be able to scavenge a few things from the hotel room they’d rented out when they came back to the city, but that’s not saying much. He’s also got nothing but a set of coordinates and a generally unfamiliar patch of jungle to go through. Plus, there’s a good chance the patrols will have upped their intensity, making it even more likely that Rick will encounter resistance on his travels.

Plus, he realizes grimly, he doesn’t have a car.

This is a bad idea. That’s the only coherent thought amongst everything. This is a terrible idea. He’s probably going to get himself captured or killed. Common sense dictates that he stay here. Michael’s orders tell him to stay here.

But he’s not going to. Because his team might need him, and being in the ODS isn’t about following orders, it’s about doing what’s needed. Every action from his teammates -- good, bad and infuriating -- can be boiled down to that. If there’s been an elephant in the room, that’s been it, and Rick hasn’t seen it until now.

So Rick’s going. He’ll take what arms he can find; he’ll steal a damn car if he has to; he’ll go. 

Because that’s what teammates do.

-o-

Rick stops thinking. He stops worrying, he stops analyzing, he stops second guessing.

Now is the time to act.

_This_ is why he joined the CIA.

_This_ is what he’s meant to do.  
 _  
This.  
_  
He takes a taxi to the hotel, and offers his driver all the money he’s carrying in exchange for the vehicle. Considering the state of the thing, the driver accepts, scuttling off happily down the street while Rick goes inside.

As expected, there’s not much left, but the weapons he’d carried on him during the last leg of his journey are still there. He throws together what little supplies are there, but doesn’t worry too much about it. At this point, he’s going in and he’s going out. If he needs something more than his wits and a few bullets, he’s probably screwed anyway.

Once he has that, he piles back in the car. He’s pleased to find that it is well gassed. The frame shudders a little when he starts it back up, but it runs. Pulling back onto the street, he knows the car isn’t as good as the one he’d borrowed from Jonah (the one he’d wrecked from Jonah), but it’ll do.

At least, as he drives out of the city and back toward the rainforest, he hopes it’ll do.

-o-

Every passing mile, Rick expects disaster.

He expects gunmen swarming out of the trees. He expects the windshield to be shattered by bullets. He expects an elephant trampling down the road.

It doesn’t happen.

He dares to think that maybe he’s gotten lucky this time.

But when he rounds the corner, he sees the figure running at him and barely has time to slam on the brakes, turning the car hard and cursing himself for ever being optimistic.

-o-

It only takes a few terrifying seconds for the car to stop. Rick has pulled the wheel hard, and he feels the car go off the road as it comes to a skidding halt. Instinctively, he ducks down, reaching across the seat for his gun when he realizes that it’s been knocked around.

Heart pounding, he dives lower, groping blindly across the floor until his fingers wrap around the metal hilt. Grabbing it, he brings it up, surging upright with the gun pointed out and ready to fire.

He’s so intent on showing his ability to fight that the flail and the screech that greet him take him completely by surprise.

“Don’t shoot! Don’t shoot!”

That’s not exactly the answer he’d expect from angry gunmen.

Curious, Rick peers over his gun and strains before he recognizes the figure half-ducking outside his stolen taxi.

“Jonah?” he asks.

From outside, the figure unfurls, and Jonah stands up. “Rick?”

Letting out a breath, Rick feels relief flood over him. Putting the gun safely away, he opens the door of the rattled taxi and steps out. “What are you doing here?”

“What are you doing here?” Jonah asks, sounding just as incredulous as Rick feels.

Rick shakes his head. “I mean, why are you _running_ through the rainforest?”

“Well I can’t drive!” Jonah says, indignant. “You stole my car.”

“You lent it to me,” Rick reminds him.

“Under duress,” Jonah clarifies. Then he looks at the taxi. “Where is it, anyway?”

Rick looks at the dilapidated car he’s been driving and reddens at the memory of the ruined vehicle. “I’m sure you’ll be reimbursed.”

Jonah’s face falls. “You wrecked my car!”

“It got complicated!”

“It was my _car!_ I loved that car!”

“It had never even been used!”

“Because it was too perfect to tarnish!”

“And it was invaluable to my escape,” Rick assures him. “Billy’s all right, by the way.”

Jonah is somewhat mollified. Still, he postures. “I better be reimbursed.”

Rick rolls his eyes. It actually feels good to win an argument, but then he realizes that Jonah has entirely missed the point. “That still doesn’t explain why you’re out here,” he says. “I mean, you never leave home.”

At that, Jonah pales. He’s sweating in the sweltering heat and he nods earnestly as he digs into his pocket and pulls out what looks like a watch. “This started beeping,” he says, holding it out to Rick. “A lot.”

Rick takes it, frowning a little. It looks like a watch, but when he gets it in his hands, he recognizes it as CIA issue. “The emergency line?”

“Yeah, man,” Jonah says. “I was going to disarm the thing when I realized the signal was an SOS.”

Rick looks at the screen, which is replaying a steady stream of blips.

“I turned off the sound -- because that much beeping is insane -- but look at the signal,” he says.

Watching, Rick sees the pattern and makes out the antiquate morse code sequence. It’s a contingency he’d only been somewhat aware of. Emergency communication systems had been standard issue, but the team had been much more interested in keeping up verbal comms over the SAT phone. The other methods, Rick had figured, were a last resort.

Stricken, Rick looks up at Jonah. “How long has this been going?”

Jonah shrugs, running a hand nervously through his hair. “An hour,” he says. “I don’t know for sure. I started running about ten minutes after it started and I sort of lost track of time.” He wheezes. “I forget how humid it is without filtered air!”

Rick gives him a quizzical look. “I thought you were done helping us.”

Jonah’s expression falters, and he suddenly looks very young. “I know I messed up before,” he says. “I was trying to help, and I nearly killed Billy. I don’t trust people and I generally disagree with the laws of most governments, but I never meant...” He trails off, shaking his head. “It was my fault you weren’t there to take the SOS. So I figured I owed it to you to come.”

“Okay,” Rick says slowly. “But you couldn’t have called?”

“I didn’t know where you were!”

“Um, Billy was dying,” Rick says. “I took him to the hospital.”

“Oh, and like a hospital wouldn’t have recorded the call,” Jonah says.

“I thought you had secure lines.”

“Well, who knows what the government is willing to do!”

Rick raises his eyebrows. “So you thought running unarmed through a jungle full of armed men was a safer option?”

Jonah blinks, as if he hasn’t actually considered that. When the realization of his own recklessness becomes apparently, his forehead creases angrily. “Well, I panicked!”

“Clearly.”

“But you know what,” Jonah says, shaking his head vehemently. “It doesn’t _matter._ I’m doing the right thing. There’s a problem, and you need to know about it. You need to _fix it._ ”

“You sort of sound like you care,” Rick observes.

Jonah scowls. “You’re the one who reminded that if this thing really goes south, all my work setting up here is for nothing,” he says. “If you guys go down, I go down with you.”

Rick takes a breath and lets it out. “Well,” he says. “Let’s hope none of us go down at all, then.”

-o-

It’s unexpected, but for once it seems like a fortuitous turn of events. Rick knows roughly where he’s going, and while his sense of direction is pretty spot-on, having someone who knows the area riding shotgun is actually pretty helpful.

At least, when he’s not ranting.

“The whole idea of _getting help_ means _less danger,_ ” Jonah tells him. “Watch for the access road.”

Rick rolls his eyes. “Well, I _am_ the help,” he reminds Jonah.

“You’re one guy! And you barely look any older than me! Are you sure you’re even a real CIA agent? You only have one gun!”

Rick glares. “You don’t know that.”

“I do!” Jonah says. “Because where else are you carrying your guns?”

“They could be stowed.”

“Oh, and that’s really helpful,” Jonah says sarcastically. “So when we get ambushed and have to fight for our lives, you can ask them to kindly stop shooting while you _unpack._ And watch for the _access road._ ”

“You know, I thought you would be all about minimal impact,” Rick says “Fewer agents on the ground, all that.”

“Access road!” Jonah yells.

Rick sees what he’s talking about at the last minute, and slams on the brakes while turning the wheel. The tires squeal and the car almost loses traction as it takes the sharp turn onto the dirt side road.

“Sure,” Jonah says, and he’s gripping the seat now while he scans the forest. “Except when actual destruction is going to occur. In those cases, I prefer to be on the team that is better armed and more experience and generally not likely to be entirely _annihilated._ ”

Rick gives him a look. “You’re not exactly helping here.”

Jonah scoffs. “I’m helping more than you,” he shoots back. “You’d have missed that access road if not for me.”

Rick can’t totally deny it. “How do you know about all this anyway?”

“Well I live here,” Jonah says. “I like to know my neighbors.”

“You’ve never talked to your neighbors.”

“I don’t have to talk to them to _know_ them,” Jonah says with exasperation. “I have scanned this entire area extensively. I know every hideout, every home, every road and hidden access point.”

“So you spy on your neighbors,” Rick says. 

“Something which you should be incredibly grateful for,” Jonah reminds him. “You know, it’s just like the CIA and government operations in general. To be ungrateful and critical and still leeching off constituents when it is most convenient. Oh, tree!”

“What?” Rick asks, but then he startles, seeing the massive tree looming in front of him. He veers hard, and the car tips precariously before Rick manages to right them.

“See,” Jonah says. “Saved your life.”

Rick rolls his eyes. “How far did you say?”

Jonah squints out the window. “Another five miles,” he says. “But they start having surveillance set up in about four.”

“Any way around that?” Rick asks.

Jonah just grins. “All my efforts being a paranoid recluse have to be good for something.”

Rick grins back. “I hope so.”

-o-

After another two miles, just as Jonah promised, he points out a grove of trees and tells him to pull over. Rick obeys, tucking the dilapidated taxi as best he can into the brush off the bumpy trail.

“You sure about this?” Rick asks, peering out through the window and into the dense brush.

Jonah shrugs. “I have the entire game map of the original Legends of Zelda memorized.”

Rick stares at him.

“Yes!” Jonah says in frustration. “I have an affinity for this stuff. In my head, it’s all a virtual reality.”

“Except this is real,” Rick reminds him. “If I go out there and step wrong, I could end up dead.”

“Well don’t step wrong!” Jonah insists.

“That’s helpful.”

Jonah sighs, eyes rolling in pure melodramatic fashion. “Just stay off the road,” he says. “They’ve got security cameras set up, but this is the rainforest. It’s remote. Getting electricity out this far isn’t easy, so they haven’t managed to expand their monitoring systems. But once you get about a half mile there, they’ve got a better perimeter set up.”

“What kind of security are we looking at?”

“Nothing cutting edge, but the fence is tall and they keep a consistent security patrol,” Jonah reports.

“Blind spots?”

Jonah huffs. “Did you actually have any plan before you almost ran into me on the road?”

“Oh, and like _you_ had a better one, running unarmed through the jungle,” Rick counters.

Jonah glares. “I hate that we live in an age where the good guys have to be so frustrating.”

Rick laughs humorlessly. “Tell me about it,” he says. “Now, about those blind spots.”

“The cameras are fixed,” Jonah tells him. “Approach any of them from the back angle, and you’ve got a pretty good chance of hitting it blind. Just don’t veer too far in the other direction, or the next camera will pick you up.”

Rick mentally pictures this, then nods. “Okay.”

Jonah seems to be waiting, as though he thoroughly expects Rick to continue. “That’s it?”

Rick shrugs. “What else do you expect?”

Jonah looks like he’s ready to flail. “Well, that’s not really a plan!” he says. “How are you getting in! Do you know where to look? How are you going to defend yourself when they open fire on you? Do you think you’ll be dead before you have a chance to lead them to me and get me killed?”

“Um, how about we just assume most of that won’t happen,” he says.

“That’s why you need a _plan._ ”

“Right now, I just need to know what’s going on,” Rick says. “I need to get close and observe.”

Jonah’s mouth is agape. “You’re making me risk life and limb to _observe?_ ”

“You chose to risk life and limb,” Rick points out. “I’m going to come up with a better plan than running blindly.”

At least this time Jonah’s cheeks redden. “If they come after you firing, I will leave you behind,” Jonah says, sulking.

“Gee, thanks,” Rick says.

Jonah looks miffed. Then, his expression turns pained. “Just...be careful.”

Rick feigns surprise. “Is that concern?”

“The good guys may be frustrating, but they are the lesser of two evils,” Jonah says. “Besides, I’d like Michael to owe me one.”

Rick chuckles at that. “You and me, both.”

-o-

Despite his bravado, Rick finds himself more than a little nervous traipsing the rest of the way to the compound. He’s had enough bad luck on this mission to assume anything will be easy, and if Michael and Casey _are_ captured, then there’s a good chance the guards are on high alert.

Rick could be walking stupidly to his death. And then Michael and Casey would die and Billy would probably die doing something by coming after them all. 

To think, Jonah would be the last man standing.

That’s the worst case scenario, but the truth is, Rick’s not even sure what the best case scenario is. He knows his team is in trouble -- the SOS is a pretty clear indication of that -- but he doesn’t know the extent of the trouble. They could be injured; they could be with the militia. Maybe they never made it back this far at all. 

They could be dead already.

Rick’s stomach flips uneasily at the thought. He doesn’t hold much affection for Michael Dorset and Casey Malick, but the idea of teamwork is still something Rick finds he takes seriously. These men may be the ones who drugged him and ditched him in Africa, but they’re also the ones who arranged to come back for him and saved his life.

He’s not sure what that means, but this is only his second mission. He sort of planned on having some time to find out.

But here he is, running through the rainforest in Cambodia, mounting a rescue mission with parameters he doesn’t even understand with one teammate already sidelined for Rick’s poor choices.

It occurs to him that he’s been here before. This is how he felt making a run with Billy. But there’s no backup this time. There’s no last minute rescue on hold.

It’s just Rick -- and he can’t fail now.

-o-

Jonah’s paranoid, reclusive and generally strange, but he’s right on about the compound. Rick slows as he approaches, taking himself deeper into the foliage until he finds a good vantage point from the trees.

He has to stand there a moment, trying to get his heart rate to settle down, as he assesses the situation. The fence is high and topped with barbed wire, but it is nothing more than a chain link fence. Every so many sections is anchored by a tall light pole, which is topped with a visible security camera.

If Rick veers to the right of each camera, he should miss the frame. There’s no way of telling for sure, but it’ll give Rick a good chance. And really, once he gets close enough, he’ll be too low to detect.

So really, there’s just one last distance.

It’s a risk.

But Rick thinks of Billy, getting stabbed in a fight and having to be drugged to stay behind. He thinks of Michael and Casey, coming back with the mission on the line. The ODS is all about taking risks when it matters.

It matters now.

Rick runs.

-o-

Rick hasn’t been with the ODS long, but the idea of a mad dash is getting unsettling familiar to him. It’s more adrenaline than skill, and he hardly feels the exertion as he charges blindly across the distance, his sole focus on the destination.

Failure is a real possibility, but it’s not one he can entertain. Because failure is death, and if Rick dies on his second mission with the CIA...

Well, Rick’s not ready to think about that.

He’s not thinking at all.

When he gets to the fence, he’s still moving so fast that he can’t properly slow down. He slams into it, wrapping his fingers in the openings to keep himself from sprawling backward haphazardly. As he steadies himself, he works to reassert conscious thought. He’s gotten this far on pure adrenaline, but now that he’s here, he actually needs to plan.

This is what being a spy is all about. At least, this is what Rick always expected it to be. High risk situations; life and death stakes; using his wits to accomplish the seemingly impossible.

It always sounded so grand.

Now, it’s a bit less grand, a lot more terrifying.

Yet, no less important.

Resolved, Rick takes a breath and nods to himself. The fence is tall -- climbing would be stupid. Working his way to a gate would be too risky -- he’ll need to cut his way through.

Unfortunately, he’s not carrying wire cutters, but he does have a pocketknife. Getting it out, he opens it, cutting vigorously at the wires. It’s not easy work -- the broken spokes of the fence cut him more than once -- but Jonah was right about their defenses. It’s pretty bare minimum, so the metal yields under the pressure.

It’s still slow work, and Rick feels his hackles start to rise the longer it takes. He steals glances around as often as he can, half expecting to see a guard detail rounding around the fence at any moment. 

He’s so distracted that when the last rung at the bottom finally gives, Rick is almost too surprised to take advantage of it. Fumbling for a moment, he puts his knife away and pulls his gun instead before ducking under the fence.

It’s a tight fit but Rick squeezes through. On the inside, he does a quick scan for security, but finds the grounds to be less guarded than the exterior. There is more foliage here, which works to his advantage to some degree, but it also makes it harder to navigate.

Trusting his instincts, he jogs ahead, keeping to the trees. He pauses periodically, listening and watching. Occasionally, he hears the sound of voices, and he starts to work his way toward them when the trees start to clear and Rick sees the center of the compound.

He doesn’t have the best view, but there seem to be a number of buildings and Rick can see some of the men milling about in the distance. They’re too heavily armed to be legitimate tea farmers, so Rick takes some solace in the fact that at least the mission was worth the risk.

At least, he hopes so. If Billy doesn’t die. If Michael and Casey are okay. If Rick gets out of here...

He wants to stop the bad guys, but his first priority is his team. Slinking around the treeline, Rick makes his way to the closest building, pressing himself up along the wall and scooting around to the closest entry point.

It’s a door and it doesn’t appear well secured. Rick pauses and listens, tensing when he hears voices within.

At first, it’s a disappointment. The voices are foreign. It’s not Michael and Casey, not that it would ever be that easy. He’s about to keep moving when he catches a few of the words in the local dialect.

“...I do not want to keep these prisoners,” one of them says. “It is too dangerous.”

“It is too dangerous to let them go,” another argues.

“We do not even know if they are spies!” the first protests.

“They are hunted by the militia,” the other says. “What else would they be?”

“The militia is opposed to any western interference,” the first insists.

“I am opposed to trouble,” the second says.

“On that, we agree,” the first says. “But if we kill them--”

“We will dump the bodies away from here,” the second assures him. “They will assume the militia did it.”

There is a pause. “They are still in the utility sheds?”

“Under intense guard.”

There is another pause. “Question them,” the first continues. “Threaten them with their lives. Check their references. Do your best to ensure that they are truly a risk to us.”

“And if we can prove it?”

“Then we will follow your plan,” the first says.

“Thank you, brother,” the second says. “I promise you, I will only need an hour to get my evidence.”

“You have never failed me.”

“And I never will.”

The sound of footsteps reverberates through the door, and Rick hears the sound of another door closing. Then, silence. 

Because the matter is settled. Michael and Casey will be questioned and set up before being executed.

Unless Rick can stop it.

-o-

On the way back, Rick is past fear. The mix of swelling emotions is too much to sort out, so he doesn’t even bother. By the time he gets back to the taxi, he can barely feel his heart pounding and he doesn’t realize he’s breathless until he opens the door and crashes into the seat.

Jonah yelps, wide eye as he brings up a stick to bear.

“That’s what you have to defend yourself?” Rick asks.

Jonah doesn’t lower the stick. “You left me unarmed here!”

“Well, I wasn’t going in there unarmed,” Rick points out. “And you did have the car if you needed to flee.”

“That would have served you right,” Jonah tells him. “After you crashed my car.”

“When this is done, you can do whatever you want with the taxi,” Rick promises.

“I thought I was going to be reimbursed?” Jonah asks. “Or was that a lie? It was a lie, wasn’t it? I’m so _stupid._ I make one stupid mistake and the next thing I know, I’m spending the next ten years of my life working with the very people who are destroying the natural order or the universe!”

Rick blinks at him.

Jonah lets out a breath, looking forlorn. “Tell me you have a plan.”

Rick has to take a few minutes to catch his breath, but he nods. “Yeah,” he says. Then he makes a face, shrugging. “Sort of.”

Jonah’s eyes go wide. “Sort of?” he asks in utter incredulity. “We’re in the Cambodian rainforest with drug dealers on one side and armed militants on another. We have a gun and a knife and a _taxi,_ and you only sort of have a plan?”

“Well, I’m working on it!” Rick almost protests. “There are just a few details--”

“Details,” Jonah interjects. “Details that involve us _not dying_ a horrible death?”

“Ideally, yes,” Rick says.

“Oh, good, because I _sort of_ thought we were _going to die._ ”

“You’re not helping,” Rick tells him.

“Oh, and you are? If so, what’s the plan, o fearless leader?”

Rick glares at him. “You said the militia has a base not far from here?”

Jonah makes a face of disdain. “Yeah,” he says. “They control the main road, so they’ve got a base just up the way.”

“A few miles?” Rick asks.

“Yeah, we’re damn lucky we didn’t run into them on our way here,” Jonah says.

“You don’t know if that’s where they keep the elephants, do you?” Rick continues.

“Elephants?” Jonah asks, as though he hopes he’s misheard.

Rick grins. “It all comes back to the elephants.”

-o-

This is only Rick’s second mission with the CIA, so he’s really not sure how they typically go. But in all his training at the Farm, he can honestly say that this isn’t something he expected to come up. Elephants simply weren’t in the training materials he’d received, and yet here he is -- stalking an elephant.

Jonah directs him to the closest access point, and Rick takes the rest of the distance on foot. It seems like good luck that security here is even worse than at the other compound, and while there are ominous guards posted at the gate, there seems to be no security cameras in place. Plus, the fence itself is much shorter, so when Rick gets close enough, he merely has to time it right and jump right over.

On the other side, he move quickly. There’s fewer foliage here, so he makes a quick dash to the closest cover. It’s a hut, and he presses himself along the backside, moving around to peek out the other side.

What he sees reminds him why the militia didn’t register highly on a list of potential threats. There’s really not much there. Besides the armed guards at the front gate, the place is mostly abandoned, and Rick figures these guys have to invest most of their personnel on patrols in order to retain a presence. With the splintered factions in the area, the offensive is more important than the defensive, and it shows.

Then Rick sees the elephant.

It’s a stroke of luck that he’s just appreciating now -- with so many men out on patrols, there’d be a good chance that the elephant wouldn’t have been here. That should have been obvious, but Rick had been so desperate for an idea that he hadn’t considered all the caveats.

Now that he’s standing here, in enemy territory, looking at a penned up elephant, he realizes there are a _lot_ of caveats.

First, he thinks he can get across the compound to the pen where the elephant is housed, but he’s not entirely sure he can escape with an elephant without being noticed and summarily shot on sight.

Second, he’s already proven that he knows how to get an elephant to charge him, but he has no idea how to make it follow him. He vaguely remembers Billy’s affinity with the animal, which is why he told himself it was possible, but given the size of the creature, Rick is having a moment of doubt.

Third, this is an elephant. Rick is planning on coaxing an elephant away and leading it several miles through the rainforest before provoking it to charge all over an enemy compound. As far as plans go, this one is sort of crappy.

Somehow, Rick thinks the ODS might approve.

He takes comfort in that, and glances toward the entrance before deciding to make his move.

-o-

The elephant is at the back of the compound, close to the forest. The fence is somewhat taller here, presumably to keep the elephant from escaping, and there are two wide gates, one at the front and one to the back. This is convenient, and Rick jumps back over the fence and makes his way to the rear exit. There’s a path that leads through the woods, which is another boon, and Rick is pleased to see it is relatively well hidden.

This might just work.

Digging in his pockets, Rick finds the lockpick kit he’s had stowed there since he joined the Agency. He hasn’t had an opportunity to use it, and he finds himself strangely gratified. 

Of course, he nearly drops it. Face flushed, he curses while he tries to keep himself together, his fingers shaking as he raises the pick to the padlock. The clank of the metal seems ominously loud, and Rick looks up, feeling sweat start to trickle down his cheeks. There’s no sign of anyone coming, so he turns his focus back to the lock and keeps at it.

The seconds are agonizing, but the lock finally clicks and Rick nearly cries in total relief. Hurried, he doesn’t bother to stow his lockpick properly, hastily shoving it in his pocket while his stiff fingers undo the latch.

When it’s open, there’s a sense of triumph.

Followed quickly by the recurring realization that he has no idea what the hell he’s doing. Stealing an elephant? That’s his master plan? Michael and Casey came in with guns blazing; Billy never even flinched at the idea of peril when he was dying from an infected knife wound. And Rick’s going to steal an elephant.

It’s a good thing this stuff will probably be classified; no one would believe it anyway.

The elephants seems oblivious to Rick, munching happily on what seems like hay near an enclosure.

For a moment, Rick’s afraid to move. He’s had nightmares about this stupid elephant, and the idea of accidentally spooking it is undesirable to say the least. But he has to make some contact with the elephant or he’s come this far for nothing.

He hasn’t come this far for nothing. He’s a CIA agent. He’s part of the ODS. They’d do it for him.

At least, he’s pretty sure they’d do it for him.

Edging inside, Rick is slow and careful, trying to recall Billy’s ease with the creature. He reminds himself that it must be somewhat domesticated, so as long as he careful, he should be okay.

He _should_ be.

With as much resolve as he can muster, Rick continues his approach. After a few feet, the elephant seems to notice him. It goes still, and Rick freezes too, and for a moment, they stand, staring at each other.

Carefully, Rick lifts his hands, hoping that the universal sign of non-aggression is recognized in the animal world, too.

It seems to work, at least to the extent that the elephant doesn’t decide to trample him where he’s standing.

Quietly, he makes a show of opening the gate all the way, stepping clear of it and gesturing out. “There you go,” he says. “All clear. You want to go for a walk, don’t you? A nice walk back in the rainforest? Now’s your chance.”

The elephant looks unimpressed.

Rick sighs. He should be used to this by now, but he sort of wants to believe that even if he can’t impress his teammates, he could hold sway over an elephant.

Like everything else, it’s going to take some work, though.

The good news is that Rick’s good. He’s untested here, but he can prove himself.

He will.

With fresh determination, Rick starts his approach again. He keeps his hands out, inching toward the enclosure where he can see the extra food is stored. “Let’s see,” he says, opening the bin carefully, eyes still on the elephant. 

There’s hay and grass and apples. 

Now, Rick’s not an elephant, but given the choice between hay and apples, he knows what he’d pick. Since the elephant already has plenty of hay and grass, the apples seem like the best choice.

Not that Rick has a lot of other options.

“Okay,” he says, bending down and scooping up an apple. He holds it up, showing it to the elephant. “You like that? Nice, crunchy apples. A real treat.”

The elephant looks interested.

Or Rick has lost his mind.

Maybe both.

Either way.

The elephant moves toward him, just a few steps, and Rick panics slightly, tossing the apple. It hits the ground just shy of the elephant, who snaps it up greedily with its trunk.

Encouraged, Rick lifts the entire bin of apples, moving his way backward toward the gate. He glances nervously toward the far end of the compound but the fact that no one seems to be following him is only a moderate relief. He is still luring an elephant with apples, so it’s not like he’s out of the woods.

Literally.

But he’s too far in to back out now, so he keeps moving until he’s out the gate. Eager for apples, the elephant follows as Rick moves steady into the rainforest.

-o-

It feels more ridiculous than it sounds.

After all, Rick is walking through the rainforest, luring a full grown elephant by a trail of apples. It’s easier when they get to the main road, but Rick knows the risk of getting caught is more pressing there.

Of course, the Rick of getting trampled by the elephant is an ever pressing concern, but Rick doesn’t let himself think about that. Instead, he keeps walking, dropping apple after apple.

It’s a tedious walk, and even though the elephant seems content to move at a steady clip, it’s still several miles. The fact that Rick’s afraid of getting shot at makes it all the more stressful, so when he reaches the pull of where Jonah first dropped him off, he feels both relieved and terrified.

If he goes farther, he’ll tip off the cameras. This is the point of no return. This is the make it or break it moment. Rick’s on his own now. Billy’s in the hospital, still recovering from sepsis. Michael and Casey are being interrogated with the threat of execution pressing and real. Jonah is hidden a few miles up the road, hiding in the taxi, ready for the final escape.

Now it’s up to Rick.

And the elephant.

Putting the remaining apples down, Rick steps out of the way. “Okay,” he says. “Go.”

It’s a simple order, and Rick’s not actually sure why he thinks it’ll work. Maybe his success so far made him overly confident; maybe he just doesn’t know what else to do.

He gestures forward emphatically. “Go on, now. Go!”

The elephant snuffles, inching closer.

“Go,” Rick says again, trying to sound firm.

But the elephant lifts his trunk, tapping Rick fondly.

On the one hand, Rick supposes it’s nice to know the creature doesn’t want to kill him. On the other, Rick needs an angry elephant, not a docile one.

Rick picks up an apple and throws it down the path. “Go get it!”

The elephant merely pats Rick’s head with its trunk. It might be endearing in other circumstances.

Like if his team _wasn’t_ about to be executed.

The frustration is mounting. Rick’s worked so hard at this, and he’s risked so much, and here he is. His plan may be ludicrous, but it’s so close to working except now that the elephant likes him too much to charge.

It’s almost unfathomable.

And Rick can’t take it anymore.

He’s endured so much; he’s been through too much; he needs this to work.  
 _  
Now.  
_  
“Just go,” he hisses, flicking the trunk away. “Just go and get angry and trample the whole damn place! All I need is for one last thing to go my way, and I do not want it to be blown by an overgrown mammal who is addicted to apples!”

The elephant looks forlornly at him.

Rick actually stamps his feet. He doesn’t care if he looks like a spoiled toddler. He doesn’t care if it’s unprofessional or unbecoming or anything. He doesn’t care.

He just wants the damn elephant to move.

“For the love of God,” he says. “Just _go!_ ”

Rick’s arms flail, and the elephant startles. Snuffling, it takes a step back before lifting its trunk and trumpeting. Rick’s eyes go wide, and he’s about to protest when he realizes this is what he wanted.

When the elephant charges this time, Rick doesn’t panic. Instead, he dives behind a tree, watching as the beast thunders past him, straight down the road.

Breathless, Rick stares.

This time, he’s the one who follows.

-o-

The elephant is surprisingly fast, and Rick finds himself sprinting to keep up. He’s already hot and exhausted, but he puts all his energy into this run. Like his life depends on it.

Like the lives of his teammates depend on it.

Suddenly that’s the most glaring elephant in the room yet: that his team cares about him.

And that he cares about them.

Priorities.

They made their choice, now Rick’s making his.

As the elephant tramples toward the front gate, Rick pulls wide, moving toward the location he last entered, and knows this time he’s coming out with his team.

Or he’s not coming out at all.

-o-

As crazy as it had sounded, the elephant turns out to be a better distraction than he might have expected. He also takes some solace in the fact that he’s not the only one completely freaked out by a rampaging elephant.

He hears the yells and then the sound of crunching metal, and he makes it to torn part of the fence in time to see the elephant flinging the mangled front gate with its trunk. The men are converging, running from all parts of the camp, and Rick uses this distraction to slip through and start his sprint across the lawn.

He gets to the first building, where he’d overheard the conversation earlier, and he’s just made it around the back, scoping out the rest of the area when he hears the sounds of gunshots.

Startled, he looks back toward the chaos, realizing one caveat he’d failed to appreciate. The elephant is a good distraction, but it’s not an impenetrable one. The idea of the creature getting hurt for his rescue operation is not what he bargained for. Especially not when they’d finally been getting along.

The intensity of the sudden concern is a bit irrational, but not unwarranted. Rick hadn’t wanted to sacrifice anyone, and that includes the elephant. But as he looks back toward the entrance, the elephant is charging forward again, knocking a group of men out of the way as it moves toward the far side, taking the men along with it. He can’t help but grin. Rick’s the one with the plan, but the elephant is certainly holding its ground.

Besides, this all can’t be for nothing. With renewed determination, he turns his gaze back around the compound and scans the buildings. Some have been left open; a few are secured. There’s a smaller one, still locked and darkened.

Rick remembers the mention of utility sheds. 

It’s his best guess.

Glancing toward the melee, which the elephant is still winning as it decimates a truck, Rick knows he only has one shot at this.

So he’s going to make it count.

Resolved, he breaks into a run, streaming across the distance with every ounce of strength he has. He feels exposed; he feels tired; he feels terrified.

He feels exhilarated.

When he gets to the building, he almost crashes into it. There’s just one door at the front, and he searches his pockets frantically for the hastily discarded lockpick. When he gets it out, his fingers are tingling with adrenaline as he works the inner gears, shifting and poking before it finally gives way.

Rick flings the lock away, stuffing the lockpick back in his pocket as he swings open the doors.

It’s dark, but Rick can smell the blood. He squints through the gloom until he sees two faces in the back.

“Well, I’ll be damned,” Casey says.

“We owe Billy twenty dollars,” Michael remarks.

Rick moves in. “What?” he asks, scooting closer until he sees them more clearly. They’re ziptied to a series of sturdy pipes. 

“Billy bet us that you’d actually do something useful on the mission,” Michael explains as Rick kneels down and pulls his knife. Michael’s got a large cut on his forehead, which has spilled blood all down the side of his face. His lip is split and his nose is bloodied and he looks generally worse for wear.

Casey’s somewhat better off, with a bruise on his cheek and a dislocated shoulder. “And I bet that you’d do something stupid and get yourself killed,” he says as Rick makes short work of his zipties, too. “So really, I think I only owe Billy ten, because the kid mounting a rescue is pretty stupid.”

“But hopefully useful,” Michael says, rubbing his wrists. He tries to push to his feet, wincing a little. Rick instinctually reaches out to balance him, and is surprised when Michael doesn’t pull away. Instead, he looks at Rick critically. “Tell me you have an exit plan.”

Rick opens his mouth, then closes it. He nods. “More or less.”

Casey rolls his eyes. “Why am I guessing it’s the less?”

“We may get to hold out on paying Billy after all,” Michael says.

Rick sighs in exasperation. “Or you could stand here and keep arguing until they come back and then no one is getting paid anything!”

“The kid has a point,” Casey says.

Michael seems reluctant to agree. “Okay,” he says, eye on Rick. “What next?”

-o-

Now that it’s up to Rick, he’d like to think he’d have something brilliant to say. A perfect plan. A genius offering.

Instead, as he leads them back to the door, he glances out and sees that the elephant is still doing its job, though it is being more effectively herded now. Their window of opportunity is fading.

Which is why Rick has one plan, and one plan only.

“Okay,” he says. “The plan.”

“I can’t wait to hear it,” Casey snarks.

“We are sort of counting on you,” Michael tells him.

Rick’s stomach flips. He swallows. He nods. “Okay,” he says one last time. “Run.”

-o-

It’s not a brilliant plan, but it’s also not a bad plan. For once, his team doesn’t question him, following close as he darts back through the compound, hoping with all he has that the elephant is still proving to be an apt distraction.

Glancing back, he sees Michael limping but keeping up, and Casey is rapidly starting to overtake him. Rick nods toward broken spot in the fence. “Right, right, _right,_ ” he mutters, pushing himself for a final burst of speed to cross the distance and go through first.

The wire cuts at him, but he ignores it, instead using his vulnerable fingers to hold back the metal to let Casey and then Michael slip through. Michael is heavily winded when he ducks through, pausing to rest his hands on his knees.

Casey is more primed. “We’re not running the whole way, are we?” he asks. There’s no trace of snark this time.

“No,” Rick says. “Jonah’s a few miles up the road.” He looks at Michael. “You going to make it?”

Michael straightens, sucking in a decided breath. “I’m a runner,” he says. 

Rick looks concerned. “You sure?”

Michael pushes him. “Not much choice anyway,” he mutters. “Now go, or all of this is for nothing.”

Rick has to concede that Michael has a point. Sparing one last look at the grounds, where everyone is still huddled around the now-calmed elephant, Rick starts off again into the rainforest, his teammates not far behind.

-o-

Rick’s in good shape, and he’s been working with a lot of adrenaline, but after a mile, he recognizes just how much running he’s done today. His head hurts and his stomach is cramped, and his lungs feel like they can never get enough air. Michael and Casey are the ones who are hurt, but Rick finds himself half staggering the last of the distance.

He’s beginning to feel disoriented, and his legs are like rubber, and he begins to wonder if he’s missed the car, if he’s screwed this up.

He blinks, trying to clear his vision as he slows and comes to a stop.

Michael thuds to a stop behind him, panting audibly. Casey passes him, looking around skeptically. “This is it?”

Rick tries to wet his lips. “I, um--”

Casey turns back. “Do not tell me you’re lost.”

Rick furrows his brow. “Not lost,” he says. “Just...”

Casey groans.

Michael staggers closer. “Just think, Martinez,” he says, listing badly. “You know where you’re going. You just have to _think._ ”

It’s a surprising voice of confidence, and Rick is so shocked that he forgets for a moment how tired he is. He forgets about his legs feeling like jelly and his stomach trying to cave in on itself and the marching band in his ears. He thinks about the rainforest and Jonah and the grove of trees.

His eyes brighten. “Here,” he says, running forward and to the left. “Here.”

“I think you may be delusional,” Casey is saying, but Rick doesn’t listen. Instead he pushes through the brush, step by step until he sees the taxi hidden just off the shoulder.

“Here!” he says again, excited now as Jonah looks relieved through the window. “We made it!”

-o-

“We’re going to die,” Jonah says. He’s been relegated to the passenger seat as Rick takes the steering wheel. Michael and Casey are tucked safely in the back, and Rick can feel their eyes watching him as he moves the car down the road.

Rick sets his jaw. “We’re not going to die,” he says.

“We’re _totally_ going to die,” Jonah says.

“They didn’t even see us,” Rick reminds him. “We got away clean.”

“They have security footage,” Jonah points out. “And when they find two missing prisoners, they’re going to know something happened.”

“Well, that’s why we’re leaving!” Rick says, glancing back. 

Michael looks pained; Casey looks annoyed.

“We’re _going to die,_ ” Jonah moans this time. “I never should have left home. I never should have helped the CIA. I never should have started illicit practices in a time of unparalleled governmental spying! I can’t believe I’m not even going to live to see the technological apocalypse!”

Rick glares at him. “You’re being melodramatic.”

“Maybe about the technological apocalypse,” Jonah concedes. “That will just be a farce constructed by world governments to stop the freedom of information and control the restless masses.”

Rick has to grit his teeth together. “We are not going to die,” he says again, as firmly as he can.

He sounds convincing, emphatic and sure, and Jonah seems ready to drop it when there’s a loud bang and a jerk, and the car goes flying through the air.

-o-

When they’re airborne, Rick grips the wheel like it will make a difference. He holds on tight, because this is all he has, this is his last plan. There is no backup; there is nothing.

There’s just this.

If Rick loses control now -- he loses everything.

And then the car hits the ground. Metal crunches and glass breaks and everything goes dark.

-o-

He’s moving.

This is an odd sensation, since he’s pretty sure he’s not moving himself. In fact, he’s fairly certain he’s mostly unconscious but that doesn’t change the fact that his body is dragging across the ground, cut on metal and glass before he’s pulled to his knees and forced to face the sunlight.

He winces, and it takes a moment for his vision to clear. When it does, he sort of wishes he were still unconscious. Because Michael is there, looking ready to pass out. Casey is next to him, looking raging mad. And Jonah is at the end of the line, tears streaking down his face.

They all have guns to their heads, a line of militiamen behind them.

Just like the one pointed between Rick’s eyes.

Swallowing, he wets his lips, and looks up at the man holding the gun. He tries to smile. “There must be some misunderstanding,” he says in the local dialect. “We’re tea farmers.”

“Who stole our elephant!” the man said, almost spitting the words. “That is an unforgivable crime!”

Rick blinks, mouth open. That’s not exactly the response he was expecting. “Um,” he says. “The elephant is okay.”

“Do you think that makes it acceptable?” the man jeers. “The elephant is life to us. So I shall take life in return.” He moves away from Rick, the barrel of his gun dancing between Michael and Casey. When it settles on Jonah, the asset nearly starts sobbing.

“No,” Rick says. “I’m the one who took it. If someone has to be punished, you punish me!”

“Martinez, what are you saying?” Casey hisses.

“Tell him we can pay him,” Michael says.

Still gasping for air, Jonah is almost hysterical. “I really don’t want to die!”

“No one’s dying,” Rick says in English, keeping his eyes determinedly on the man. “You are a man of priorities. You protect what matters. Surely you will understand that I am the same. I did what I had to do to save those that matter to me.”

“At my expense!” the man roars back.

“We can get the elephant back,” Rick promises. “We can make this right.”

“Yes,” the man says, stepping closer with a stoic look on his face. He lifts his gun toward Rick once more. “I believe we can.”

Rick’s out of options; Rick’s out of plans. Rick’s priorities are in order, and Rick’s made the best choices he can in any given moment.

Mostly, he’s saved his team.

He’s okay with the rest.

He takes a breath and lets it out.

He’s okay.

He closes his eyes.

-o-

There’s no bang.

There’s no pain.

But there’s a squeal and a screech. Yelling erupts, and Rick opens his eyes in time to see a car careening down the road, straight at them.

Still on his knees, he’s too shocked to move. Michael dives forward, and Casey hauls Jonah with him, smashing into Rick until they’re all on the ground.

The impact is resounding, and for a moment, Rick’s ears ring so badly that he can’t tell what happened. He blinks a few times and realizing he’s staring at the blacktop. He blinks a few more times, and his ears pops, and he sits upright with a start.

The fast upward motion makes his head spin, and he’s hit with a wave of nausea. He doesn’t have time to think about that because he’s staring at a car.

The vehicle is unfamiliar to him; it’s also stopped within a few feet of him, having decimated the line of men holding them guard. It’s too much of a coincidence to be real, but if he’s here with Michael, Casey and Jonah...

Rick’s eyes widen.

The door opens, and the tall figure staggers out. Billy looks ghastly and pale, supporting himself heavily on the cooling hood of the car. He’s panting, and his eyes look a little glazed even as his eyes lock with Rick’s.

“Did we do it?” he asks, the words jumbled and accented. “Did we get them out?”

Rick is still staring, even as Michael and Casey pull themselves upright, too.

“Yeah,” Rick says, because he has to say something. “I think maybe we did.”

Billy grins in total relief. He nods. “Good,” he says, nodding again. “Good.”

Then he promptly passes out.

-o-

Rick was the first one off the ground, but Michael and Casey beat him to Billy’s side. By the time he gets there, Michael is already on his knees, rolling Billy over while Casey is lifting the Scotsman’s shirt.

Slightly woozy, Rick has to brace himself on the car as he looks down. At first, all he can see is Billy’s clammy face and Michael’s shaking fingers before Michael sits back on his heels. “He’s alive,” he sighs.

Casey gently undoes the bandage. “He’s healing, too,” he reports, putting the bandage back in place.

Rick shakes his head. “But why is he here?”

Michael actually laughs as he looks up at Rick. “You actually have to ask?”

Rick stares at him.

Casey rolls his eyes. “Why are any of us here, genius?”

“Priorities,” Michael reminds him. “We all need to make the best choices we can in any given moment.”

This is true for Rick. What’s harder to understand is that it’s true for them all. It means Rick’s willing to risk everything for the mission, for his team.

It means they’re going to return the favor.

That’s the elephant in the room, the only one that matters.

“Okay, then,” Rick says. “Why don’t we get out of here?”

“Finally!” Jonah cries, coming up from behind. “I don’t know how much more of this I can take. Too many dramatic rescues. Don’t you guys know James Bond is a fictional character?”

Michael rolls his eyes, helping Casey heft Billy up until he’s slumped between them. “You want to drive this time?” Michael asks.

“Nah,” Rick says. “I think this time I’m good.”


	7. Chapter 7

EPILOGUE

Billy’s stolen car is almost as dilapidated as Rick’s taxi. However, since Billy’s vehicle isn’t totaled on the side of the road, they all climb in. It’s a tight fit, and Rick finds himself tucked in the backseat with Michael squashed up next to him and Billy sprawled over them both. Jonah frets in the front, and Casey grumbles at the wheel.

They’re all injured to some degree. Michael seems to be nursing a concussion after the accident, and Billy’s only in and out of consciousness. His skin is warm, but not hot, and Rick figures that’s still a good sign.

Casey pops his shoulder back into place with nothing more than a growl, and though his knuckles are white on the wheel, Rick figures that’s just as much his disposition as it is any likely injury. Jonah seems to have fared the best -- the car accident barely left him bruised -- and yet he’s the one who complains the most.

“Do you know how many pathogens are in blood?” he asks. “I don’t think I have enough bleach to contain the spread of germs from this incident.”

“That’s too bad,” Michael says. “We’re stopping by.”

Jonah gapes.

Rick hides his shock a bit better. “Don’t you think we’d all be better suited for the hospital?” he asks. He nods toward Billy, who is lying slack-jawed between them.

“Four undercover agents and an asset all checking into a hospital with suspicious wounds?” Michael asks. “The injuries alone would probably get the police involved, and with Mr. Motormouth in the front seat, we’d probably all end up in custody.”

“Not to mention we now have two sets of bad guys looking for us,” Casey reminds him.

“No, we need to find a secure location and hole up,” Michael says. “We can contact Langley and get an extraction team in order.”

“But Billy...,” Rick protests.

Michael gives him a look. “We’ll check everyone over,” he says. “If there’s an injury we need to take care of, we’ll take care of it.”

Jonah scoffs. “Normally I’m all for erring on the side of caution when talking about using facilities under government insight,” he says. “But where do you think you’re going to go? We’re in the middle of the rainforest! There’s, like, one secure place--”

Jonah cuts off. Then he groans.

“You can’t be serious!” Jonah wails.

“And you can’t be that dumb,” Casey says. “Now remind me, is it this turn off or the next.”

Sulking, Jonah looks like he wants to object. But between Casey’s white knuckles and Michael’s piercing stare and Billy’s lax features -- what choice does Jonah have? Rick feels for him, he really does. He knows what it’s like to be put up against the ODS. They’re infuriating.

They’re also right most of the time.

You can either hate them for it -- or you can join them.

Jonah sighs. “Next,” he says. “And you guys owe me...”

“Come on,” Rick cajoles. He looks to Casey to Billy before smiling at Michael. “You know we’re good for it.”

-o-

At Jonah’s house, they pile in weary and bloodied. Jonah retreats immediately, apparently overwhelmed by the day’s events. Even though they’ve given him a hard time, they owe Jonah quite a bit and don’t object to his departure.

As for the ODS, Michael insists they tend to Billy first, and Casey lays the Scotsman on Jonah’s spare bed. They change the bandage and pull the covers up before letting him sleep.

Michael looks ready to tend to Casey, but the shorter man merely glares him into submission. “I know the hits you took back at the compound,” Casey says. “Now sit down, shut up and let us look at you.”

Rick figures the fact that the mission’s as good as over is the only reason Michael submits, and when Rick helps Casey finagle their team leader’s shirt off, he has to wince at the bruises. “How did you even walk?” Rick asks.

Casey has a penlight out, shining it in Michael’s eyes. “Can you even see straight?”

Michael hums softly. “We do what we have to.”

Casey rolls his eyes. “And right now, you need to rest,” he says. “No moving, but if you fall asleep, we’ll be waking you up.”

Michael smirks. “Yes, mother.”

Casey purses his lips. “If I were a mother, I would feed you cough syrup until you were unconscious and not worry about you until the morning,” he says.

Rick gives him a look.

Casey shrugs. “I had a loveless childhood,” he says.

“I’m sorry,” Rick replies.

“Don’t be,” Casey tells him. “It’s the greatest gift my parents ever gave me. Now, sit down, new guy. Your turn.”

Rick shakes his head. “You were the one who was held and interrogated.”

“And I didn’t even pass out once,” Casey objects.

Normally, Rick might waffle. But he’s been through too much. He’s earned this as much as the rest of them. 

He pins Casey with a look. “Let me look at you,” he says. “Or I’ll ask Jonah where the cough syrup is.”

For a moment, Casey’s look is ambiguous. Rick worries he’s set the other man off, but then his mouth twitches in the approximation of a smile. “Okay, then,” he says, giving Rick the penlight. “Your turn to play mother.”

-o-

Casey’s okay. His ribs are bruised but they don’t seem broken, and his range of motion on his arm is better than Rick’s. When Rick is satisfied, Casey gruffly returns the favor before declaring Rick’s hard head has prevented him from any serious damage.

“Thanks,” Rick says gingerly.

Casey scoffs. “I didn’t say it was a compliment,” he says. “Hard heads are indicative of thicker skulls, which means there’s probably less brain matter inside.”

Rick frowns.

“So any concussion wouldn’t have done much damage anyway,” Casey concludes. He sighs. “I’m going to sleep now. Can I trust you to keep watch?”

Keeping watch -- it doesn’t seem like much, but this time Rick recognizes the request for what it is. Casey isn’t asking him to do something trivial. He’s asking Rick to take the responsibility for the most important things.

He nods. “Yeah,” he says. “I’ve got it.”

Casey’s silent agreement means more to Rick than words ever will.

-o-

Recovery is quiet. The ODS is all for antics, but this mission has left them worse for wear, and it shows. There have always been moments, of course, when Rick has seen the serious part of what the ODS does. Back in Africa, when they’d exchanged glances after seeing the hostages. When they came in, guns blazing, ready to extract him and everyone else from that mess.

This is a different kind of quiet, though. The determination of the mission is gone; Rick’s own single mindedness seems silly now. The bad guys are still out there; they may be intel to gather; there may even be elephants to herd. But none of that is more important than this.

So Rick checks on Billy, and he watches Casey. He minds Jonah’s property and wakes Michael every few hours. The hours of the night are long, and he feels weary deep in his bones, but this responsibility is his, and he takes satisfaction in that.

When the dawn is breaking, Rick is exhausted, but he checks his watch dutifully and lifts himself to wake Michael. The team leader is sleeping on the couch, but when Rick comes close, he finds the man looking at him. “I think I’m okay, Martinez,” Michael says.

Rick doesn’t even have the energy to shrug. “Have to be sure,” he says. “You know where you are?”

Michael sits up gingerly, smirking. “Better than you do,” he says. 

Wearily, Rick sits down on the nearby chair, keeping his voice low so as not to wake Casey, who is sleeping on the floor nearby. “Well, this is only my second mission,” he points out.

Michael rolls his shoulders with a small wince. “And what a mission it was.”

Rick huffs a laugh. “It wasn’t a mission at all,” he says. “Did we even get the intel?”

Michael sighs. “Some of it,” he says. “Not as much as we wanted.”

Rick’s stomach churns. “That’s bad, isn’t it?” he asks. “You know the director is gunning for your jobs.”

With a small wave of his hand, Michael shrugs. “Higgins knew this one was a long shot,” he says. “I think he just wanted us out of the office and miserable for a few weeks as payback. He’ll enjoy thrashing us about how little we got out of it, but he won’t fire us for this.”

“Are you sure?” Rick asks.

“Kid, if you think this mission is bad, you haven’t seen _anything._ ”

Rick sucks in a breath, blowing it out. “I know,” he says. “Like I said: second mission.”

Michael seems to implicitly acknowledge that. Then he pauses, looking at Rick carefully. “You know, for your second mission, you defied a lot of orders.”

Rick scoffs. “You guys don’t have much room to talk.”

“Sure,” Michael says. “But you’re the one who keeps talking about the mission.”

“Well, yeah,” Rick says. “That’s the job I signed up for.”

“So why didn’t you follow orders?” Michael says. “You had no way of knowing what that extraction plan of yours would do.”

“I had a pretty good idea of what would happen if I didn’t go,” Rick counters. “I mean, you’re the one who told me it’s not just about the mission. It’s about the team, about how we all do our jobs. You needed the backup.”

“That wasn’t part of the mission,” Michael says.

“Yeah, well, I guess I was getting my cues from somewhere,” Rick says sardonically. “Besides, Billy almost begged me to go after you.”

“He can be quite convincing,” Michael agrees. “And annoying.”

Rick chuckles. “He gave me the idea, but what you did on this mission -- that gave me the push I needed to go.”

Michael’s brow darkened. “So you’re saying I encouraged you to be recklessly homicidal and dangerously suicidal?”

“I won’t leave my team in danger,” Rick replies. “Not again.”

Michael’s eyes are still studying him, his expression guarded. But then he nods, a smile spreading across his face. “You know, maybe you’re in the right spot after all.”

For the first time since he showed up at the CIA, Rick’s starting to think maybe he is, too.

-o-

After that, Rick sleeps.

He actually can’t remember the last time he truly slept, so when he takes Michael’s place on the couch, he’s out. Normally, this might bother him -- it’s hard to let his guard down, especially when self-proclaimed right bastards are involved -- but somehow Rick knows it’s safe.

In his dreams, he’s back in his mother’s kitchen, telling her about his first two missions. She is both proud and horrified, doting over her baby boy.

“It’s okay, Mom,” Rick says. “I know sometimes it’s dangerous, but I’ve got a good team.”

She clutches her chest a bit, toying with his hair. “You are my baby,” she coos. “If anything ever happened to you...”

Rick glances out her kitchen window. In the yard, Michael and Casey and Billy are there. Michael is scrutinizing the sod; Casey digs up a carrot from the garden and eats it. Billy is playing hide and seek with the elephant; surprisingly, the elephant seems to be winning.

It’s not the team he’d pick; it’s not the team he’d ever envision. It works, though.

Grinning, he looks back at his mother, leaning down to kiss her cheek. “It’s okay now, Ma,” he says, squeezing her arm. “I got to go.”

She looks ready to cry again, but Rick finds he can’t stop. His team is there for him, whether they want to admit it or not.

And Rick’s not going to leave them waiting.

-o-

Rick’s eyes open.

For a moment, he’s not quite sure where he is. He’s on a mission. No, the mission is over. He’s safe. His team--

He sits up promptly, and the room spins.

“Easy, lad,” Billy cajoles. “Casey says your hard head spared you from a concussion, but I reckon you’re still going to have a nasty headache for a while.”

That’s something of an understatement, and Rick tries to hide his grimace. Until he realizes-- “Billy!” he exclaims, eyes going wide. “You’re awake!”

Seated in the chair where Casey had slept last night, Billy grins. He looks sickly, but he’s upright and coherent. “Aye,” he says. “You can’t keep a good man down. At least, so it seems in your case. For me, some proper rest, fluids and antibiotics seem to be helping.”

“But you left AMA,” Rick says, feeling a bit confused.

Billy blushes. “You will find Michael Dorset has creative methods of getting what he needs,” he says. “This isn’t the first time we’ve had some unfortunate close calls.”

Rick makes a face. “Is that supposed to be encouraging?”

Billy smiles gently. “Depends on how you look at it,” he says.

“Near death on a consistent basis?”

“But a team that will bend heaven and earth to get you out nonetheless,” Billy reminds him.

Rick can’t argue that. There’s an amiable silence, but Rick shifts, chewing his lip.

“You may as well say what’s on your mind,” Billy says.

Rick sighs. “You followed me.”

Billy nods. “Indeed.”

“You promised me you’d stay in bed,” Rick finally says.

Billy has the decency to look chagrined. “Well, in my defense, I did tell you on your second day on the job that I say a lot of things I don’t mean.”

“We were having a moment, though,” Rick says. “If we’re going to trust each other in the field, you have to be able to tell me the truth.”

Billy sighs. “I tend to think of the truth as a negotiable thing,” he says.

Rick gives him a look.

Billy’s shoulders fall a bit. “I also tend to think of the truth as a necessary evil at times,” he says. “What I did is something I’d do to Michael or Casey, too. I reckon they wouldn’t believe me, though.”

“How does that even work?” Rick asks. “How can we be a team if we don’t say what we mean?”

“Because we _know_ what we mean,” Billy tells him. His look is piercing now. “Isn’t that what matters?”

“And you knew I wouldn’t get the job done?” Rick asks.

At that, Billy looks truly apologetic. “Sometimes I forget how sensitive wee spies are,” he says.

“I’m not sensitive,” Rick protests.

Billy gives him a look. “You’re proud, and you’re out to prove yourself,” he says. “And you have courage, and I knew without a doubt you’d do everything in your power to get the job done. But there’s a reason the ODS has stayed together this long.”

“Because no one else will tolerate you?”

Billy laughs. “That, and we have each other’s backs -- even when we don’t want it,” he says. “And really, after you do enough missions, they start to blur together. The goals are always important and noble, but after a time, it starts to lack immediacy. But what is always worth fighting for -- what we will never compromise on -- is each other. A team is something real and tangible -- the best thing to fight for.”

Rick nods, considering this. “I joined the Agency to serve my country,” he says. “I believed I could make a difference for the better.”

“And after two missions, how’s that going for you?” Billy asks.

Rick lets out a breath. “It’s complicated,” he admits. “I mean, this mission was a disaster. The first one was unsanctioned. You guys seem to break the rules as much as you hold them up.”

“Well, espionage isn’t exactly a career for the upright,” Billy points out.

“I know,” Rick says. “And I just...I don’t know. The greater good matters to me.”

“As it should,” Billy agrees. “Just remember, the greatest good is sometimes the things right in front of you. They’re not ideals or promises -- they’re people.”

Rick shakes his head with a small laugh. “You guys are still bastards.”

Billy grins, but doesn’t disagree. “Give it time, lad,” he says. “You may find your inner bastard yet.”

“Well, I still think you guys need to be more honest -- with Higgins and with each other,” Rick says. “This would have gone much better if you guys had been straight with me from the start.”

“There may be some truth to that,” Billy says. He shrugs. “Who knows, maybe we can learn something from you along the way.”

Rick brightens at the idea. “You think?”

Billy makes another face. “It’s possible,” he says.

“This is another thing you don’t mean, isn’t it?” Rick asks.

Billy winks. “Now you’re starting to get it.”

“Yeah,” Rick says. “I think maybe I am.”

-o-

They take their time.

This isn’t all ODS flair, even if the guys try to make it seem that way. They banter and they joke, but they’re all sore and in various stages of recovery. They want it to seem like they’re extended their time just to up the bill for Higgins, but Rick starts to notice the way Michael presses his fingers between his eyes to dispel a headache, the way Casey rolls his shoulders more, the way Billy falls asleep every afternoon and evening before he’s finished telling his stories.

Rick can’t really complain. His own head injury leaves him fuzzy, and it’s only on the morning Michael announces they’re leaving that Rick thinks maybe all the effects are gone.

Jonah sighs in melodramatic flair. “It’s about time,” he says. “I’m going to have to order more food now. You guys have decimated my supply.”

“Don’t get the macaroni and cheese next time,” Billy advises. “That substance should not be equated with dairy.”

“But go double on the meatloaf,” Casey says. “Somehow the texture works.”

“You shouldn’t care because I don’t plan on seeing you for a long, long time,” Jonah says, sulking. “I may want to move.”

Michael smiles at him. “But then where will I send the check?”

Jonah glares.

Rick shakes his head. They guys won’t say it, but he will. “Thank you,” he says, holding his hand out to Jonah.

Jonah looks both surprised and reluctant. When he shakes it, he seems younger than Rick thinks he should. “I really am sorry.”

Billy comes up and claps Jonah on the shoulder. “All’s well that end’s well.”

“Well enough, anyway,” Michael points out. “We didn’t exactly get the intel.”

“And we may have started a turf war between the militia and the drug dealers,” Casey adds.

“And you ruined my car!” Jonah objects.

“But no one died,” Billy says. “I, for one, am quite grateful on that account.”

“I’m glad you’re setting our standards so high,” Michael says with a smirk.

“I don’t care about the standards,” Casey mutters. “I’m just ready to go. I want to get through the rainforest without any more leeches.”

“Or gunplay,” Billy adds.

“Or how about the elephants, huh, Rick?” Michael asks.

Rick rolls his eyes. “I think I can handle elephants now. After this mission, I think I can handle anything.”

Billy makes a face and Casey shakes his head.

Michael wets his lips. “Be careful with statements like that,” he warns. “You may find out it’s not true.”

Rick shrugs. “Maybe,” he says. “But that’s why I have my team to back me up, right?”

Billy grins, and Michael seems pleased with the answer. Even Casey seems oddly satisfied as Jonah just shakes his head.

“Okay, then,” Billy says. “I’m driving, but we need someone to be lookout.”

“You mean someone to sit shotgun and play target,” Casey says. “Not it.”

“Not it,” Michael says.

Rick gapes. 

Jonah holds up his hands. “Don’t look at me.”

Finally, Rick just shakes his head. “Fine,” he says. “I’m it. Now let’s go.”

No one objects as they pile out. There’s no telling what awaits them; if Rick knows anything, it’s that he knows nothing at all. There could be adventure; there could be disaster. Rick’s a little terrified; he’s also excited.

Because he’s it -- and he’s never looked forward to anything more in his life.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to those who read it to the end!


End file.
